


Death, Deliverance, & Diatribes

by pavlovee



Series: New York, '2X [2]
Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: A lot of pain, Book of Nile, Canon-Typical Violence, Found Family, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Immortal Husbands Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Kidnapping, M/M, Post-Canon, Rescue Missions, Temporary Character Death, abba haters gtfo, and i mean VERY limited hints at, for the most part i believe, i dont think its too bad but take that how you will, just...in general, listen gang i get a lil graphic with the torture scenes, no this is just the pain fic and part three is the comfort, not yet at least, or in this case finding family again, there's a bit of angst regarding that, very limited
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-15
Updated: 2020-11-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:15:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 77,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26295472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pavlovee/pseuds/pavlovee
Summary: The Guard had a week in New York City to relax and unwind before their job, and Nicky had been on edge about it ever since he pulled the sniper out of the box he picked up in Manhattan. Trusting Nicky's gut feelings should be a higher priority, because when a key part of the job goes horribly wrong, the group left quickly realizes that they're going to have to start chasing ghosts if they want to get their friend back.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Series: New York, '2X [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1905187
Comments: 179
Kudos: 329





	1. Jay St-Metrotech

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun fact, i wrote this fic to [this playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2GM7CDfkC4MqFzYLLJjj1s?si=98bnHiVNS0G2X5szSrav1w). give it a listen if you'd like :)

“After this, it’s Kiev,” Andy tells them as Nicky’s packing up his M95, checking over his ammo and scope one more time. “We can’t stay here any longer, a full reset will be good while Copley’s finding us another job.” 

“Do we have a place to stay in Kiev?” Booker asks. He’s already suited up and ready to go, early rising bastard. “The last one we had got torn down and rebuilt.” 

“Fuck. We’ll find something.” Andy shakes her head, though she’s finished lacing up her boots. “Besides, it’s not the end of the world if we have to go up to a Scandanavian country–it’s been awhile since we’ve gone to Norway.” 

“Sweden could make more sense,” Booker states. “Or, better yet, we just skip Ukraine all together and go to Greece. How long has it been since we’ve gone to Greece?”

Andy scoffs. “We see how much we’re getting paid for these fucking documents. _Then_ we decide where we’re going, how about that?”

“I’ve never been to Greece–!” Nile pipes up. “I mean, I’ve seen Mamma Mia, and that’s about the extent of my Greek knowledge...oh, and Percy Jackson.” 

“ _Percy Jackson?_ That’s what you know about Greece?” Andy almost sounds offended for a moment, but she pauses and shrugs. “Those books did at least _teach_ a lot of things I suppose…” 

“About mythology? Yeah. I was, like, ten when the first one came out,” Nile says, a small smile crossing her face. “And I still remember a lot of it.” 

“They’re not bad,” Booker remarks simply. 

“ _You’ve_ read Percy Jackson?” 

He shrugs. “I’ve read a lot of things, Nile.” 

“Oh yeah? What was the last thing you read?” The grin twisted on her face definitely reveals the extent to which she’s joking, but it still gets a chuckle out of Nicky.

Booker laughs–an actual, honest to God, real laugh. “Do you want the sad answer or the not-sad one?”

“Both.” 

“I’m ninety percent of the way through _The Bourne Identity_ –y’know, corrupt CIA shit making supersoldiers–but I just _finished_ this book called...fuck, what was it? ...Fuck if I remember, it was about art therapy.”

“Oh?” Andy glances to Booker as she straps herself into body armor. “Was that one that Sandra recommended?”

“Yeah–fuck, are we leaving tomorrow? Or Wednesday? If it’s tomorrow I have to text her tonight and reschedule–”

“Wednesday, Book,” Andy tells him simply. 

Joe makes eye contact with Nicky, his smile reaching his eyes. Nicky manages a quiet chuckle, shaking his head and looking back to his bag. 

“I’ll _think_ about Greece,” Andy continues. “And I mean think–long and hard. Once we’re done, I’ll give you an answer.” 

It doesn’t make Nicky nervous that they don’t have a set destination. He’s spent a lot of his life without knowing where he’d wind up next, if anything this is kind of reminiscent of that. He zips up his duffle and throws it over his shoulder, making a mental checklist of everything he’s got in there one last time. _M95, Benelli M4, the Smith and Wesson rifle…_ Yeah, he’s definitely good. It’s a heavy bag, but Nicky’s used to it by now, and lugging around his gear keeps his shoulders looking nice if nothing else.

Joe is crouched next to him, checking over their ammunition and ensuring his scimitar is plenty sharp. His shirt is frustratingly not tucked in yet, though his belt _also_ isn’t on the proper notch yet (both things that are usually Nicky’s fault, but aren’t this morning), and he’s put on a Yankees baseball cap already, which it almost infuriates Nicky to not be able to play with his hair right now. Especially after a morning shower when it’s freshly air dried. Nicky has his own hair half-tied up (it was rushed, and clearly so, but still done), and he zips up his bag and stands. 

“Nicky, you know where you’re going, right? Do I need to give you the address again?”

That brings pause, though he knew this was coming. Nicky’s eyebrows furrow and he turns back to Andy. “Is it not with you…?”

“There’s roof access near the building, we need you in place to take care of security on the roof and we’re going to need you to take out the big guy. Some others if you can while we’re heading up.” 

Nicky doesn’t like it at all. “If you’re sure you don’t need me with you, boss,” he says, hinting at his hesitation without being blunt…no, that may have been pretty blunt. “Anything else I should keep an eye on? Is anyone coming with me?”

“Do you think you need anyone watching your back?” she asks, seeming genuine about it if nothing else. 

He really thinks it over for a moment, considering saying _yes_ but not wanting to detract from the team going in. Three going in is simply not enough. Ultimately, he shakes his head. “No, I can do it.” 

She nods, getting her own bag over her shoulder. Nicky knows that with his sniper, he’s going to have to get over there on his own at this rate, which he’s perfectly capable of doing, but it feels strange to split up this time. He can’t quite say why, but there’s something unsettling in the pit of his stomach. Just in case, he throws an extra granola bar in his bag, and wanders to the elevator. 

“My earpiece will be in and on, let me know when you get there,” he says once he’s pressed the button. “By the time you get there, I should be in position to take out the roof security.” 

“Thank you, Nicky,” Andy says quietly. There’s something he doesn’t like about her voice, but he can’t quite put a label on that either.

Is he really in the right headspace for this?

Joe throws his arms around Nicky, holding him tight and close for a brief few moments. Nicky relaxes into his grip, snaking his arms around Joe and resting his face in the crook of his neck. He smiles, too. Joe mumbles something about staying safe, that he’ll see him soon, to which Nicky huffs quietly and chuckles. _Of course I’ll be fine_ is what he says, _how could I not be?_ The look Joe gives him immediately after tells him everything; Joe is more than conscious of Nicky’s words from last night, and he is not going to forget them. " _Ti amo_ ” is the last thing Nicky says before he backs onto the elevator despite Joe’s clear concern, and the unease in the pit of his own stomach. He leans against the back wall and rests his head on it, attempting to shut down the thoughts he does not want to listen to. The moments of alone time are strange, and though he knows exactly where he’s going, it doesn’t feel right. 

He calls for a cab to take him into Manhattan. It’s a long drive, and it costs a decent amount of money, but Nicky still has too much American money to care for an expensive cab fare. Besides, this guy won’t ask any questions about the duffle bag, or the way he fiddles with the back of his jeans because there’s totally _not_ a Glock 19 tucked into his waistband. Nicky finds himself watching the scenery the entire ride up, absentmindedly playing with the hair tie on his wrist. He’s glad he remembered it–usually he’s stealing one from Nile or one of the extras that Joe carries around. When he pays the cab driver and leaves, he guesses it’s been around an hour (maybe an hour fifteen), and he’s honestly not sure if they beat him or not. 

Probably not, he hasn’t heard anything in the comm yet. 

Nicky makes his way up through the building quickly and quietly, one about three hundred meters away from the actual building they’re supposed to be getting into. It’s surprisingly not difficult, and he manages to get onto a high floor via the elevator and take the stairs the rest of the way. The roof is locked, but it’s not hard to pick and break out through. Good God, it’s high up. Nicky isn’t afraid of heights, but they still manage to make him irrationally uneasy.

His first movements are spent setting up his sniper under the natural cover of the roof he’s on–Jesus Christ, is the building _swaying_ ?–and once he’s set up, he makes sure his aim looks good for the opposing building’s roof. Although a bit lower, only by a story or two, it’s enough to spend extra time ensuring the clean angles, which Nicky can observe and figure they will get the job done. He checks for the twenty ninth floor corner office, looking in through his scope to the desk and spotting a person behind it within an easy range. Perfect. He’s chosen a good spot, too, in a built-up part of the city, which will _easily_ make the sound from his shots echo when people inevitably hear them. And to make matters _even better_ , it’s hot as hell up here, and still relatively humid, which will only help his shots go even more undetected–better than a cold winter morning in Moscow. The suppressor should also be helping, but even Nicky isn’t sure how much. 

“ _Nicky? We just got to the street, how is it looking up there?”_

Nicky adjusts briefly to get a look at them through his scope and smirks to himself. They look so small from up here. He’s adjusting back to the primary position when he taps the earpiece to reply.

“I’m up here, and everything looks good. I’ll take care of rooftop then,” he says quickly.

The first thing he does is stick his pistol under his thigh for quick access, just in case he needs it, and then he’s rolling out his shoulders and taking aim. His finger barely needs to brush the trigger as a pull to fire the .50 caliber shot through the furthest one’s head. He watches his body crumple, reloads, and takes aim for the second. They don’t notice the first one go down, but the second one brings pause–his gun is _loud_ , there’s not a question about it, even with everything in Nicky’s favor to mask the sounds. When it’s just the third one left, reaching for his radio while Nicky quickly pulls back on the bolt handle to reload and chamber his next bullet. It’s a quick shot, one that Nicky is nervous he’s scuffed at first, but planting the bullet straight in his chest still manages to almost rip the man apart. 

He taps the earpiece again. “Rooftop down. Proceed. I’m watching the street.” 

“ _Thank you Nicky._ ” Andy sounds relieved, almost. 

It’s strange to be outside of the action, and it is not something Nicky particularly likes, but clearly the rooftop team may have been worrisome enough that they _had_ to be taken out. True to his word, Nicky is watching the street, but he’s also keeping an eye on the roof–in fact, he’s chambering another shot and taking aim again. Movement on the roof has alerted him to another guy wandering through the door. He’s wishing there was a _quieter_ option than the M95, but in all fairness it’s a miracle Andy’s axe made it overseas–he’ll take what he can get. Nicky can only imagine the horror this poor security guy must be going through, considering he’s wielding the brain blaster and his shots have been perfect. Aiming isn’t hard, and the shot slams directly into the son of a bitch. 

He goes down just when the door behind Nicky audibly opens. 

Twisting fluidly, ripping the Glock from under his thigh, he takes aim for the head and shoots without question as soon as he doesn’t recognize who’s approaching him. Nicky stays low to investigate the body, but shuts the door once he’s determined it’s clear and picks up the radio when he can hear them asking for updates. In his best American accent, Nicky manages to deliver a pretty convincing _clear_ that they accept without much hesitation. 

“Updates?” Nicky asks into the comm. Has it been enough time, or is he just getting antsy? “Being quiet up here is not exactly going so well.”

“ _Halfway through. Blame Copley for the gun–there’s a guy we need you to take out, two floors down from Locke, far left. Should be in your line of sight._ ”

Yes, he will blame Copley. Just not right now. The response took a minute, which honestly doesn’t make Nicky feel great, but he’s putting a new magazine in just in case and looking for the shot. Sure enough, he can line up the shot, but he’s crossing himself and sending a quick prayer upwards that this actually works. Skyscraper glass is thick, enough so that Nicky is pretty sure it’ll take two shots to break the panel and one shot in. It’s _going_ to be loud, and it’s _going_ to stress him out, but…if it’s making himself useful, who is he to argue? 

Nicky is convinced he’s never chambered succeeding shots this fast in his life. It takes a bullet to get through the first layer of glass, and one extra shot to blast open the head of the guy who was pulling on his radio and backing away from the window. Exhaling slowly, Nicky shuts his eyes for a very brief moment. 

_Maybe this gun isn’t so bad._

“He’s down,” Nicky tells Andy. “Dropped a big gun, too.” 

“ _Grazie_.” 

Nicky is back to keeping an eye on the roof. He doesn’t trust it now, and he wouldn’t be surprised if there was someone in charge of finding out what the fuck was going on, especially after that glass shattering–oh, a new person wandering onto the roof. This one seems more heavily armed than the others, and Nicky’s quick about his death. He shoots while the guard is crouching down, back to him and head just _perfectly_ in sight. 

He’s definitely getting bored, especially when he knows he _should_ be in the opposite building, fighting with the group. He’s really hoping nothing goes wrong for them–that may have been what he was so worried about last night–partly because he doesn’t want to have to bail them out, but also because he will _definitely_ be blaming himself. 

“ _Line up the shot, Nicky, we’re almost ready._ ”

Nicky lines up the shot without even thinking about it, taking a slow inhale as he peers through the scope of his M95. His body just _knows_ what to do at this point, and as he gets it perfectly set on the head of the man sitting in his office chair on the twenty ninth floor, Nicky is satisfied, even knowing he’ll have to break the glass. However, his finger never touches the trigger, not yet at least, as he sits and waits for the perfect moment to make the man’s head into a .50 caliber-sized canoe. He can hear Andy through his earpiece, saying something about breaching the floor, but it’s turned faint and a bit fuzzy. Odd, they’ve never had this issue before. Granted, there have only been a select few times (Nicky may be able to count on one hand) that they’ve separated the group like this, but even so. 

No, it’s when he can hear the quietest footstep behind him that he pulls away from the scope, his free hand shifting to grab the pistol under his thigh in a slow motion. When he whips around, he’s expecting a security team that he’ll have to take down–they probably began coming up once the other didn’t return, in which case it’s easy money–but when he’s faced with a woman, and a familiar woman at that, he can only hold out the Glock and aim for her chest. Not pull the trigger.

“What are you doing here, Quynh?” Nicky’s voice is low, and though he wants to let the group know she’s here, he can’t tap the earpiece without risking the job. “ _Why_ are you here?”

_Son of a bitch. Booker wasn’t lying._

He _could_ tap the earpiece. But it would distract them to know Quynh was not only here, but she’d found _him_ , and if he didn’t tell them, they were waiting for him to take a shot that wasn’t coming until he dealt with this. It only gave him so many options, but he can’t bring himself to pull the trigger on Quynh right now. Not…not after all the time he’d missed, thinking that maybe her time really had come. She’d always been a good friend to him, they’d understood each other, but that isn’t exactly a good thing in this scenario.

She simply smiles, shakes her head. “I’ll tell you later,” she muses.

“ _Nicky, take the shot,_ ” Andy says into the comm. 

He takes the chance to tap the earpiece. “I can’t,” he says, casting a quick glance back to the building. He can’t see much without the scope, but he can hope...

As soon as Nicky is looking at the building behind him, he can barely bring himself to look back at Quynh–both of her hands were behind her back, not visible in the least, and he doesn’t want to find out what she was holding. And as much as he wants to pull the trigger when he’s turned back to her, before she can bring the SMG out and fill him with lead, he gets one shot into her shoulder and one into her chest. Neither stops his death, and neither seems to kill her for that matter. 

As he’s splattered into the ground, blood pooling out from underneath him, Andy’s voice is still audible through the comm that Quynh plucks from his ear. 

“ _Nicky? You didn’t completely come through–Nicky, take the shot, we’re ready._ ”

She’ll give them a shot, alright. She’ll give the traitorous son of a bitch a shot. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you to my pair of lovely beta readers, @wordywizard and @roses-are-red713 !! what angels i absolutely love them.


	2. 5th Av/53rd St

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We will, right? Get Nicky back.”
> 
> Booker pours her more liquor too, filling up the glass about as much as he did the time before. “Before it’s too late? I hope so,” he says. 
> 
> “Define too late.”
> 
> “Before he spends more than a week in there. He won’t give in, ever, but nobody should have to go through what he’s about to go through.”
> 
> “I understand.”
> 
> “À la vie, à la mort,” Booker muses, clearly his own form of cheers when he clinks their glasses, as he takes a drink.
> 
> –
> 
> Or, The Gang Doesn't Know What the Fuck to Do

“ _Nicky, take the fucking shot,_ ” Andy repeats into the comm, for what Nile imagines is the fourth time. “Shit, we’re going in.”

“Yeah, but is he alright?” Nile asks, absently checking the magazine of her gun. “Something’s gotta be wrong if he hasn’t done it.” 

“I didn’t make out what he said,” Booker adds, “all I got was _‘I ca.’”_

“I heard an _n_ in there,” Nile mumbles.

Andy says, “We’ll recon and talk about it then.”

Nile casts a look to Joe, and though he’s stayed silent for now, he’s very clearly _not_ happy. Nile and Andy still step to the front, Nile positioning herself in front of Andy to take any potential shots that come in, but when she kicks the door down, she’s half expecting the guy to just already be dead on the desk. Maybe she was _hoping_ for that, actually, but unfortunately he’s still sitting there, behind a small row of guards. Nile gets low to the ground to shoot, allowing for those behind her to light the guards up like roman candles. When Nile is standing, when all the guards are down, she glances back to the three behind her.

“We good?” she asks, stepping into the room without hesitation.

A quiet chorus of “good”s comes back to Nile, and Andy is moving into the room. 

“Mister Locke,” Andy nearly purrs as she steps in, brushing past Nile. “I hear you’ve been doing some particularly bad things, lately.” 

He opens his mouth to speak, but Andy puts a bullet in his brain before anything can leave his mouth. 

“Alright, let’s find the files,” Andy continues, her words turned to the trio behind her. “Book, you got that? Joe, watch the door, Nile, keep an eye on the street.” 

Nile wanders to the window, shrugging out of her backpack and tossing it onto a corner chair as she approaches. There’s no signs of trouble from the street yet, though it’s also fairly empty, save for all the parked cars. Strange. Her eyes skirt up to the roof Nicky should be on, and though it’s far, Nile is almost convinced she can still see the sniper. Her fingers nimbly go to unzip the backpack, hunting around for a scope while she continues to stare at the spot. 

The first shot that Nile hears has her on the ground, Glock back out, her heart pounding out of her chest. The glass had splintered and cracked right in front of her _fucking face_ , and while she’s managed to get cover near the chair, she can’t be too sure if that means she’s out of Nicky’s range. The immediate followup shot shatters the glass panel directly next to her, and Nile scoots back, readying her pistol as she looks back to the three behind her.

“Which one of you was that?!” Andy demands, though has kept herself down and low in a back corner.

Joe’s voice is clear from behind Nile, still in the doorway. “That’s a fifty-cal shot–“

The final bullet comes into the room, and when Nile looks back around, she realizes where it’s gone. She can’t see Booker anymore, plain and simple. The first move Nile makes is to aim the pistol to the roof that Nicky _should_ be on, though she convinces herself quickly that she can’t see anyone manning the gun. Nile snatches the extra scope she’d been hunting for, trying to get a view of the roof. She has to adjust it, very briefly, but when she does, Nile can very clearly make out a body slumped over a woman’s shoulder–a body that’s wearing Nicky’s clothes, and visibly darkened with blood.

Fuck.

Nile tosses the scope back in the bag, going behind the desk to check on Booker, though she regrets it almost instantly. It’s a scuffed shot, Nile only knows because she’s aware that Nicky was using the brain blaster, and Booker still has more than half a head. Brain and skull matter have stained the floor and walls, not to mention blood. 

“Andy,” Nile says, glancing at the woman at the other side of the room. “We gotta get out of here. Now.”

Andy is tapping her earpiece, staring out the window. “Nicky, what the fuck was that?!” 

It echoes into Nile’s own comm, the loud noise making her wince while she begins to try to salvage the files Booker had been pulling out from the blood and skull fragments. She merely dusts off the top before she’s crouching next to Booker, waiting for him to come back. 

The comm is eerily silent. 

“Nile, we’re going to check on Nicky. Joe, take whatever files you can and get Booker to the house. Might want to clean up downstairs.” Andy is spitting out orders faster than usual, and Nile may have even said there was a hint of panic in her voice if it didn’t manage to still be still even-toned. 

“ _I can’t_ , Andy,” Joe says, almost sounding like he doesn’t believe his own words, turning to face her. “He said _I can’t_.” 

Nile hasn’t seen Andy look visibly afraid in a long, long time. She’s throwing guns back into her bag, shaking her head. “We’re gonna get him, Joe.” 

“There was a woman,” Nile says, unable to stop herself. “I…saw her when I looked up there.” 

“What else did you see?” Andy demands, her voice hardening instantly. “Who–what did she look like?” 

“What the _fuck_ was that?!” Booker’s voice rings out. He’s looking mostly back together, but that doesn’t mean it’s a pretty picture. “Was it Nicky?!”

Andy’s eyes harden on Nile.

“She was carrying someone,” she answers slowly. “I didn’t get to see her face, just…I assume she was a woman, her hair was long and black.” 

“We’ve gotta try to see her face–fuck, Nile, we’re going _now_. Joe, get Book home, with whatever files we’re being paid to grab. Tell Copley Locke is dead when you get the chance, too. He can figure out how to clean this up somehow, we don’t have the time.” 

Nile doesn’t need to look at Joe to know that he’s holding back an argument. The ground out “yes, boss” that he gives her is shocking to Nile, but she is well aware there is not enough time to argue for his sake right now. Andy is already going to the door, and Nile has to run back to her backpack and zip it up before moving to follow Andy.

“Stay safe, guys. We’ll see you soon,” Nile tells them as she stands in the doorway, watching Booker slowly stand up and Joe turn to the desk. She’ll talk to him about this later, as much as she’d like to right now.

Right now is spent running after Andy to get to the elevator, jumping in before she can head down, standing in silence with her as they descend rapidly down almost thirty stories. 

“You know it was Nicky she was carrying away, right?” Nile asks softly. “I don’t think I said it, but…”

“I figured,” Andy mumbles. 

Nile turns her eyes downwards, and they train on the floor. Her fingers mess with the straps of her backpack, and she’s not even thinking about the pistol she shoved into her waistband like a phone. Is there anything right _to_ say right now? This has never happened before, not in Nile’s time. At least, a single person being taken with absolutely no leads. Merrick’s had an explanation: Booker. It puts a sour taste in her mouth now just to think of it, but she _knows_ that this isn’t Booker’s doing. She knows that the man she’s been getting to know, who’s just started smiling again, can’t be the reason for this. 

With that logic, with all the reasons she knows he wouldn’t and couldn’t, she still can’t shake the singular thought. _What if he did this?_

Andy hustles the pair of them across the street, and Nile sees the first car on the entire street pull out of a spot directly in front of the building she knows Nicky was supposed to be at…it takes a moment to put the two together, but Nile jumps back out in the street, much to the horror of Andy, and throws herself in the direct path of the car, crying out to _stop, please, stop!_

She can stare down the three faces she can make out in the car, imprinting them into her memory to the best of her ability. The car swerves around her, lucky for the big street, but Nile watches the car continue to speed away. Her phone is out in an instant, zooming in and snapping a quick photo of the license plate before she’s hurrying back to Andy’s side. Nile is zipping up her jacket in the process, realizing that the world doesn’t need to see her shirt with a suspicious amount of bullet holes in it.

“You’re insane, Nile,” Andy mumbles, squeezing her by the shoulders and hustling them back along. 

“I know what I’m doing.” Nile grins briefly, but she’s still trying to burn the faces into her mind. “I could only see three people in the car, I wanna try drawing them when we’re on the subway.” 

“We’ll make this quick then.” 

Andy takes them through a side entrance, guiding Nile through the back routes of this building and into the elevator. They can take it all the way up to the roof, where Nile pushes the door carefully open and steps out. 

The first thing she sees is a dead security guard a few paces in front of her, shot once in the head. Nile steps over the body, biting hard on the inside of her cheek when she lays eyes on the pool of blood in front of the sniper, next to Nicky’s bag.

“ _We’re out, headed to the subway,_ ” Joe says, his voice quiet in Nile’s earpiece. “ _See you guys soon._ ”

What really gets Nile is the echo, quiet and squeaky, but she crouches down and picks up what _looks_ like Nicky’s comm.

“ _Thank you, we’re doing the same soon,_ ” Andy replies. The unsettling part is that Nile can hear it coming from three different places.

“How do you turn these things off, again?” 

Andy looks over, her eyebrows furrowed in confusion until she realizes what Nile is holding. “Double-tap the button…Fuck,” she mumbles, shaking her head and tossing her own backpack down next to the sniper, beginning to dismantle is as quickly as she can. 

Nile pulls a little plastic bag out of the front of her backpack once she’s turned off the comm and set it in the front pocket. The bag is supposed to be for hair ties, but she crouches back down and carefully plucks up two of the 9mm rounds that were sitting in the slowly drying blood, careful to get the least amount of blood on herself as possible. They go in the bag, which returns to the front of her backpack. _Fuck is right,_ Nile thinks to herself, trying to get any other ideas as to what could happen, or who it could’ve been as she walks back closer to the rooftop access door. 

Phone out while Andy still takes apart the M95, Nile is dialing Copley and making slow paces up and down the roof. 

“ _James Copley_ ” is the answer Nile gets after several rings. He sounds like he’s about to go to bed, but when Nile checks her watch, she can’t find it in her to try to do the math of timezones from New York to London.

“It’s Nile. I need your help,” she rushes out. “Nicky’s gone, someone came up to the roof and pumped him full of lead, and…we need to know who did it. All I have is a suspect license plate picture, and I can give you the address of the building he was at–“

“ _Yes, Nile, of course. Let me get to my computer, grab a cold brew._ ” 

It is not a particularly long time before Copley’s asking for the address. Nile carefully gives it to him, watching Andy zip up the backpack and throw it over her shoulder, mouthing _we gotta go_ as soon as she’s done. 

“ _I need time to look everything over, give me a few hours. I also need to clean up the cameras from your job, but by 1900 hours your time, I should have something._ ”

“Thank you, Copley. I appreciate it,” Nile says quietly, hanging up the phone instantly. 

She wants to scream, she discovers very quickly, but instead follows Andy back down and out through the building. They’re silent on their walk to the closest subway station, Nile stopping them just outside so she can hunt through her backpack for her sketchbook and pencil and pull them out in advance. The last thing she wants is an Uzi falling out of her bag in the middle of the train. 

They hop the turnstiles, and it’s less than three minutes before the train is there and Nile can sit down and start sketching rapidly. She is infinitely slower than Joe, even if she’s definitely using some of the approaches he taught her, but she can still get rough sketches of the faces down by the time they’re underneath the East River and heading back into Brooklyn. She hands the book to Andy, holding onto the pencil and tapping her thigh with it while the other woman stares at the page in what Nile can only assume is disbelief.

“Nile…you saw Quynh,” Andy says quietly, swallowing visibly hard. “You…you saw Quynh.” 

Her eyes go wide almost instantly. “She was the one in the backseat–“

“She’s the one that took Nicky.” 

Nile slumps back into the seat, gnawing on her top lip as she tries to run a million different things through her head at once. One thing is prevalent, though. “Booker was telling the truth,” she mumbles. “About Quynh being back.” 

“The son of a bitch was telling the truth,” Andy echoes. 

“We don’t know if Quynh took Nicky for sure though–it may be a coincidence.” 

“Nile, after this many years, nothing’s a coincidence. We were wrong about her.” 

She adds a small sketch of the license plate to the foot of the page, including the make and model of the car (to the best that she can read it) while Andy stews over the new information. Nile is not excited in the least to present it to Joe and Booker when they get back, but it’s not like she has a choice in the matter. She clutches the sketchbook to her chest the entire walk back, once they’re off of the train, and it’s still against her body, warm and comforting even though it’s still summer outside, when she enters the apartment with Andy. 

Andy still looks like she’s seen a ghost when she dumps her bag next to the sofa. Booker’s been sitting at a desk, looking over the files they grabbed, while Joe’s clearly only been pacing. Bless his soul, he still visibly looks over Nile’s shoulder to see if there’s anyone behind her.

There’s not.

“Copley’s looking into footage for us,” Nile says quietly, holding out the sketchbook. “I saw some people on our way over, I sketched them while we were on the train.” 

Joe takes the sketchbook, flipping to the marked page. Nile is fishing through the front pocket of her backpack to set down the comm and little bag with the 9mm bullets. Booker takes note of what Nile puts on the table, and he’s immediately standing and rubbing his face, on his way to look over Joe’s shoulder at the book. 

“These are fan…tastic,” Joe says, undoubtedly recognizing the sketch too. He’s silent for a moment, but looks to Nile. “You drew Quynh.” 

One glance at Booker tells Nile he’s sick to his stomach at the mere mention of her. Nile replies, “I drew who I saw in a car, driving away from the building.” 

“ _You son of a bitch_ ,” Andy growls, her eyes narrowed in on Booker. It’s one of the few phrases Nile recognizes in French, at this current moment in time at least. 

Booker begins spewing rapid-fire French, the panic in his eyes almost overwhelming as both Joe and Andy turn on him. Nile hasn’t had the chance to learn French, and at this point, she can’t be bothered to ask them to speak any of the… _three_ languages she understands (English, Spanish, and Russian, as it were). As their argument gets louder, still in a language Nile doesn’t understand outside of swears and basic manners, she finds herself slipping out onto the balcony, sitting in one of the metal chairs and letting her head gently rest in her hands. She’ll let them fight it out, because they’ll figure something out, and together, they’ll get Nicky back. That’s how this is supposed to go, yeah? 

That logic doesn’t mean that any of this is suddenly easier, though. 

After what Nile anticipates is an hour of her thinking to herself and staring out into the city, it’s Booker who slips out of the apartment and shuts the door behind him. When she takes the chance to observe him, she notes that he shut the door with his knee, and he’s carrying two glasses with a large cube of ice in each, holding a bottle of brown liquor she can guess is whiskey.

“I’m sorry about that,” he says, gently setting the things down on the table, though he doesn’t look at her. “It gets heated sometimes.” 

“Yeah, I noticed.” 

“We’re gonna get Nicky back.” 

“I figured.” 

Booker sighs audibly, looking down to the street, watching what Nile’s been watching. “I’ll teach you French myself at some point, if you like,” he offers. “I used to teach, briefly, at a college.” 

Nile’s surprise undoubtedly is visible on her face. 

“ _Very_ briefly. I took it up when we had some time off,” he says, shrugging. “You don’t have to say yes, I just thought I’d offer.” 

“I appreciate it.” 

Booker taps the railing on the balcony, making eye contact with Nile now. “I brought the liquor out because I thought you might want to share a drink, but I understand if you don’t.” 

At this point? “I’ll take some, sure,” she says, nodding. “I think it might help with the headache I have now.” 

“Sorry about that,” he says, chuckling quietly but pouring her a regular amount of the whiskey, giving himself easily double the pour. The bottle is readable now–Maker’s Mark. “I take partial responsibility for it.” 

“I don’t blame any of you,” Nile explains quickly. “I’m just thinking how hard it is for _me_ to think about Nicky being gone. I can only imagine what it’s like for Joe and Andy–especially Joe.” 

Booker shakes his head, taking a hearty drink. “I don’t know his exact feelings right now, but I do know what it feels like to lose someone you love forever, and if it’s anything like that…”

“It’s hell on earth,” Nile finishes quietly.

“Yeah. Something like that.” 

The whiskey is warm, like an internal hug, with a nice spice to it. It doesn’t burn going down, and the faint sweetness to it is actually relaxing to Nile. Booker is good when it comes to picking out alcohol, she isn’t sure why she ever doubted him on that front. 

“What happened with you and Quynh? Remind me,” Nile finally says, eyeing Booker. She isn’t asking this time, and she isn’t going to let him get away with not answering either.

Booker huffs, shaking his head. “It’s a long story, and it’s not pretty.”

“We have time. Copley hasn’t called back yet.” 

“She found me in France,” Booker says after a moment (and another large drink). “I went back to Marseille, just to stay there for a good while. I was trying to avoid you, all of you, give you the space you asked for. It was hard, goddamn it was hard, but I was doing my best. Granted, I was piss drunk when I got back to my flat, but Quynh had found me. She was waiting for me, invited herself in and left my door unlocked. We talked. For hours and hours. 

“Until...she killed me. For the first time, not the last. She said she was angry at Andy, Nicky and Joe for letting her rot at the bottom of the ocean, and she said she was even more angry at the people she’d spent so much time trying to protect. She took me away after that, to a private building owned by an American agency, and she kept me there as her prisoner. All she wanted me to do was tell her where you were, turn me against you. It...got bad.”

He inhales slowly, his eyes staring blankly off into the city ahead of them. Nile knows better than to interrupt the train of thought, though there’s a stake ramming its way through her heart at the notion that she can’t stop him from reliving the situation. Not when she _needs_ to know the information to proceed. 

“I refused, obviously. I made a mistake once, I’m not going to make it again. There was a room, in the basement, that I occupied for quite some time. She tried to torture it out of me. Death after death. She brought her friends in, the Americans, to inflict the same kinds of pain. Not that it worked. I had things to lose.” Booker contemplates his glass of whiskey, sipping at it once more. “I was starved for six months. I lost my mind, the pain from that alone was almost unbearable—it’s not just your stomach turning inside out, it’s your whole body that suffers. You’re too weak to do much of anything, and all you want to do is sleep it off and hope it’ll be the last night you suffer. It never is. I know they did it to ensure I wouldn’t be able to leave as easily if anything went wrong, but I get the feeling it was more than that.

“They drowned me, too. That was another big one. It seemed to be some sort of sadistic game that Quynh loved to play, drowning me. Seeing what happened next. She ripped me open with blades designed for torture alone that should be in museums they’re so old. My bones were broken, my heart ripped out of my chest. There was medieval shit in there I won’t go into. Men used me for target practice on bad days, and on the few moments of rest I would get, they threw me into a solitary confinement room to sleep.” 

Nile is trying to process everything Booker is saying, but there’s a lump in her throat and she can’t reply. Instead, she reaches over to set her hand on his forearm. 

He continues, “Quynh wanted one thing from me. I never gave the information to her. It was one of my last days that she came in and said she was switching plans. She said they found a doctor who had worked with Merrick, who was willing to come in and work on me with their in-house researcher. Instead of going in alone, she decided she wanted to create a group of immortals—or, half immortals, whichever was more doable—and use them to wage war against Andy and the world. Supposedly, there were ways to create people like us, perhaps with a set number of deaths.

“Kozak got there the day I escaped. I was unattended when she was coming down, and by some miracle of God I was able to get one of my hands free. Everything else came shortly after. When I say I could barely run, I mean it. It only took so long because I was in such a state from the lack of food, but I broke into a vending machine on my way out. It helped, but not much, and considering the cuts were taking a long time to heal–the glass on the machine, you know... I didn’t waste time trying to kill anyone, not that I could risk getting killed–my body was so weak from all those months that it would take _minutes_ for me to come back, sometimes more than ten–I just ran. Didn’t look back, but it’s why I started looking for you guys.”

Nile slowly nods. “Pilar, Argentina. How did you find us?” 

“I practically begged Copley. No, I did beg. Got down on my goddamn hands and knees and said I would do whatever he wanted, so long as he told me where I could find you.” 

“I don’t know why we didn’t believe you,” Nile mumbles, shaking her head. She takes a drink now, but puts the glass down after. Her hands are suspiciously close to shaking. “We should’ve believed you.”

“I wasn’t exactly in peak condition,” he points out. “I didn’t make it easy for you to trust me either.” 

“We all could’ve been better.”

“Next time, we will be.” Booker shakes his head. He pours himself more whiskey, his current glass almost empty. Nile doesn’t blame him one bit. “Though, for now we just have to get Nicky back.”

“We will, right? Get Nicky back.”

Booker pours her more liquor too, filling up the glass about as much as he did the time before. “Before it’s too late? I hope so,” he says. 

“Define too late.”

“Before he spends more than a week in there. He won’t give in, ever, but nobody should have to go through what he’s about to go through.”

“I understand.”

“ _À la vie, à la mort,_ ” Booker muses, clearly his own form of cheers when he clinks their glasses, as he takes a drink. His eyebrows furrow at the sound of a faint buzzing, whipping a phone from his pocket and answering with a “ _salut?"_

She pulls her hand away from his arm when he answers it, instead picking her glass back up and sipping again. Just _thinking_ about that happening to Booker makes her want to simultaneously kill someone, throw up, and hug Booker and never let him go. The problem is that she knows that’s what is about to happen to Nicky, except it might be worse this go around.

She is watching him the entire time he’s on the phone, sipping at her glass every now and then. When Booker hangs up, he looks to Nile and shakes his head. 

“We’ve got a lead–Quynh’s with the CIA.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i gotta hand it to the beta readers again ;-; this fic is partially saved because of them you have no idea (@wordywizard and @roses-are-red713).


	3. Chambers St

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Her face contorts into what may be confusion, as if she doesn’t know the answer, though she gives one anyways. “Here? Not long. A few days at most. From what I can tell, you and I are going to be going to various places until Kozak gets what she wants. Even then, I do not think you’ll be released.”
> 
> “You could just say forever.”
> 
> “Forever is different to you and I, and I’m not a fool. I know that before forever comes around, Yusuf will have found you.” Quynh’s fingers slip briefly, a sharp slice right under Nicky’s chin burns faintly. He can’t help but wince, the muscles in his thighs tensing up inexplicably even though it’s already healing. “And the war the Americans will wage on the world will be brutal as it is. Nicolò, you’ve fought in wars designed to purge before, what’s to stop you from doing it again?”
> 
> “The time you spent at the bottom of the ocean clearly made you forget some things,” Nicky says, his voice low, almost a growl. “Or you never really knew me at all.”
> 
> –
> 
> Or, Quynh Gives Nicky a Shave, and They Talk

When Nicky comes back around (for the second time, the first time he came back he was instantly shot in the head again), he’s laying down on the floor of a foreign car. It smells like leather, new car, and it at least _feels_ clean. He’s zip-tied to a part of the passenger chair, though his feet are also definitely zip-tied together as well. _God damn it._ He finds himself coughing into his arm, holding in a groan of pain. His head is pounding now that he can think about it, and he’s definitely regretting only having a piece of toast for breakfast.

“You’re awake,” the female voice muses from above him. He knows it’s Quynh, he saw her face, he _knows_ that voice. So why can’t it register in his brain that she’s alive? “I’m sorry for the trouble I may have caused.” 

“What _trouble_?” Nicky asks, not even trying to look up at her. His head should _not_ feel like this. “What…did you give me something?”

“You will be in and out of it for the next couple hours. I know how lethal you are, Nicolò, I would be a fool to not keep you contained.” 

“What did you give me?” The words stumble out of his mouth, and he’s digging his forehead into his arm now. Everything’s pushing inwards, crushing slowly with a hefty weight that _burns_.

Quynh scoffs. “After the stunt your Booker pulled, I have to be careful about keeping my promises. If I have to drug you to get you back, it is the least I can do. How do you like the Bronx, Nicolò? Are you familiar?”

“Are you…are you asking me as an Italian, or a gay man?”

Something sharp and metal enters his side. From what he can tell, it feels like a curved dagger, but he isn’t sure. All he knows is that it digs deep and hurts like hell. When she removes it, Nicky is sitting in a state of shock while his body debates whether it can be healed _now_ or he needs to briefly die again. His body decides that being stabbed through the stomach and kidney requires short lived death to heal.

If nothing else, the brief span of absolute nothing is a relief from the headache he has. 

His eyes open shortly, though the headache is rushing back to him all too quickly. The interior of the car is black, which is probably for the best, considering his side is still warm and wet with blood. Though he’s laying there in a state of shock, his own head trying to kill him, he still finds words.

“I missed you, Quynh,” he mumbles. “Things have changed, I take it, but I missed you. We all did.” 

“Clearly not,” she counters simply.

“What happened to you? How did you get out?”

“I have my ways.”

Nicky lets his head rest on his arm again, getting excited for a brief moment at the idea that _maybe_ his comm would still work, but he quickly realizes he can’t feel it in his ear anymore. Instead, he briefly pulls on the zip-ties, but to no avail.

“You stopped looking for me,” Quynh finally says. “The three of you. I drowned for centuries, over and over and over again, and you stopped looking when it became inconvenient.“ 

“That’s not true–”

“ _Bullshit,_ ” Quynh snarls, the knife feeling at his side again but not making the plunge. “You tell me that if it was Yusuf in that infernal prison you would have given up. That you would not still be looking to this day if it meant finding him.” 

Nicky has no rebuttal, no argument. She’s right. He falls quiet, not having any words to say, certainly not _I’m sorry_.

“That’s what I thought,” she tells him simply, her voice cold.

The knife disappears from his side, and he shuts his eyes again. At first, he tries to focus on the sound of the radio, but they aren’t listening to music he particularly likes. Then, he just tries to focus on the sound of the air conditioner running–anything to get his mind off of the headache and Quynh. One of the first things he’s accepted is that he is not getting out of here easily, if at all, and the second is that he’s definitely in no condition to fight right now. 

He doesn’t know how long they’re driving for. No more than an hour, he’s assuming, though it feels like four. The light is blinding when the doors initially open, and though Nicky tries to put up some struggle, a mask is pressed against his face. He _knows_ he’s being gassed as soon as it’s on, and though he tries to twist his body and fight back, it does nothing to stop the loss of consciousness. 

At least his head doesn’t hurt for now. 

When he comes back around, Quynh is standing over him, peering down with her brows furrowed. _How long has it been?_ She’s had the time to change her clothes, from what he’d easily describe as black tactical garb to a deep red long sleeve, and tie her hair up. The strangest part is that she looks so _modern_ compared to the last memory he has of her–it’s anticipated, that she would become one with the times, but that fact doesn’t make the situation less jarring. 

Leaning over his right side is a man, who would be edging near intimidating were it not for the pale blue checkered shirt he was wearing under the lab coat. Nicky can’t quite say what it is about select patterned button downs that ease his mind, even if he knows better than to relax right here. The man’s shoulders are wide, his hair cropped short and dark, and though he’s wearing glasses, his eyes are still visibly so dark they almost appear black. Even though Nicky can’t see it, he knows that the clinking of metal on his right side is from this man tinkering with some form of supplies. Probably medical of some nature.

_Great, perfect. Yes, this is exactly what I needed! Amazing!_

Nicky’s thoughts are running laps around his mind as sprints, but the one that’s stuck at the forefront is one simple fact: _I am alone here._ Even if he’s glad that Joe isn’t here to suffer with him, the familiar presence that grounds him to Earth would be more than ideal. Once he shifts his wrists, becoming extra-aware of the cuffs that are pinning him down, his mouth goes dry. He knows what comes next. 

“So. You’re the oldest one, hm?” the man asks, peering back over at Nicky. 

Quynh inhales to speak, but Nicky beats her to it. “Yeah, that’s me.” 

She doesn’t correct him. 

It’s horribly sterile, wherever Nicky is. There are no windows, but everything is an off-putting shade of white or blue, while it smells like cleaning supplies and it’s…cold. For the past week, Nicky has been _craving_ genuine cold to get away from the humidity and heat of New York, but now? This cold is not pleasant, and surely the faint smell of formaldehyde is not making the room any more appealing. Beaming down at him, the lights are a part of the ceiling, which is slightly more reassuring than a swinging lightbulb on a string (which happens to be the sole lightsource in far too many of Andy’s safe houses). 

There’s a bench behind Quynh, one that looks like it has a thin pad of cushioning over a metal frame. If they weren’t underground, Nicky imagines there would be a window there. He trains his eyes on the ceiling, the suspended ceiling, and the intricacies in the black dots that litter the white tiles, the curtain rail that swings around to undoubtedly shield the door from the sights of the table–even if the curtain isn’t pulled back. Odd. 

“Why am I here?” he finally asks, looking between the two as if simply their presence could tell him more. “What is it that you want from _me_?”

“Let’s just say…I’ve become aware of some of your _special abilities_ ,” the man says, shrugging it off. “And after reading Doctor Kozak’s research, I can say that I’m very interested to see where we can take you and your genes.” 

Nicky’s blood runs cold just at the mention of Kozak. He hates himself for it, but he can’t help the feeling of dread taking root in his chest.

“She ran out of samples quite a long while ago, and it wasn’t nearly enough to conduct her research. So…what we’re doing for _now_ , is playing around until she can get to our other facility. We’ll be joining her there in a few days–oh, sorry. Right. I’m Hank Curtis. I do have a PhD, so that is _Doctor_ as well.” 

“Right,” Nicky mumbles, sighing quietly. 

“I hope you know that your genes could also be helping a lot of people,” Curtis continues. “If we play our cards right, we’ll be able to make sure that the next generation of Redthorn operatives can be further equipped to save lives and save our men from a lot of death.” 

“That means a lot more death for everyone else,” Nicky tells him simply. 

“You should know better than to leave a man alone, unguarded,” Quynh says, which definitely feels like a jab that hurts more than a physical smack. It changes the subject, rather abruptly even, but Nicky doesn’t mind. “It never ends well.” 

“Are you saying we were set up?” Nicky’s eyebrows furrow briefly as he turns to look back at her.

“Who would’ve set you up?” Curtis asks, rolling up his sleeves and setting down what clinks like metal. “Who do you have feeding you jobs?”

“Who are you working for?” Nicky asks instead.

Curtis’s hand shoots out to grab Nicky by the neck, pull him off the table and slam him back down with a _hefty_ amount of force. Well, fuck, the headache is back, but Nicky was also _not_ expecting Curtis to have that kind of muscle underneath the lab coat.

“I asked first.” It’s said with a cruel smirk, Curtis briefly loosening his grip on Nicky’s neck to allow him to speak if he chooses.

He goes silent instead, shuts his mouth and clenches his teeth together. He’s not sure if it’ll do anything, but all he does know is that if he doesn’t say shit, nobody finds out anything. Unless…a couple years ago, when Booker said he’d found Quynh–or, more accurately, Quynh found Booker–and they’d all dismissed it for having something to do with his incredibly drunken state. Unless he had said something about Copley to Quynh then, there’s no way they’d know. None at all. Right? 

“Oh, we’ll get it out of you. One way or another, and I don’t have to be careful either.” 

Nicky absolutely does _not_ like the sound of that. 

Quynh slips out of the room without any notion of a goodbye, the doors clicking shut behind her. Though he can’t see very far into the room that is all too small and still chock-full of organized bags and boxes, he can watch her slip out of the set of doors. All that’s left is the steady beeping of the heart rate monitor and Curtis breathing.

“I get the feeling we’re going to become good friends over the few years we’ll have together,” Curtis tells him, shaking his head as he does. 

_Few years?_

“I want to know, first of all, where the others like you are. I know they exist, but supposedly with the exception of Miss Quynh, there weren’t any other immortals on the scene.” 

Nicky, in a split second decision, decides that if he’s going to say anything, it’s not going to be in English. His head auto-pilots him to Italian–modern Italian, yes, but only because he’s wary of his own dialect in their mouths. “ _You’ve got to be a fucking moron if you think_ –“

Curtis pulls a metal baton from underneath Nicky, and it’s quickly smacked down onto his chest. The pain is unexpected, and it’s heftier than anticipated, but what really gets Nicky is the audible cracking that results from the smack. Good _God_ it hurts, and the thick, warm substance at the back of his throat is undoubtedly blood. 

“You’re at my mercy, Nicolò. Perhaps you want to think your statements through.” 

“ _Go to hell._ ”

The baton gets tossed onto the floor with a clammer that honestly hurts Nicky’s ears. He can feel his ribcage slowly stitching itself back together, but the lingering pain from it is excruciating. 

“I’m going to be putting you through one trial a day, letting you sleep the rest of the time you’re here until you move South.” He chuckles softly, picking up a scalpel and scissors. “I can promise you now that you’ll get back to Europe eventually, but for now, American soil will have to do.” 

Nicky is staying quiet for now, watching Curtis approach. By now, his bones are at least intact again, but Nicky isn’t sure how long that’s going to last for. The doctor buttons up his coat and rolls up his sleeves before he makes the incision into his belly. Nicky grinds his teeth together, squeezing his eyes shut. He can’t help the noises of pain that escape from his throat, but he also is pretty sure they’re justified.

The scalpel barely cuts before the scissors are cutting across him, the snipping through his flesh gradual. Nicky has never been cut open with scissors before, the flesh breaking apart like the glue that binds his skin simply melted. It hurts like hell, he’d rather it with a sword for the speed if nothing else. 

He’s aware, once the cut goes up, of what’s happening. It slices quickly, and Nicky manages to stay conscious as Curtis is pulling his flesh apart. As much as he wishes he would just pass out or die, he lingers on the edges of consciousness. The darkness takes hold of him shortly, at the mere touch of his internal organs (though, it’s not exactly a gentle touch) while his skin is trying to stitch itself back together and Curtis only rips it further apart. 

–

Nicky wakes up with Quynh at his side, her eyes raking over him slowly, like a wild animal preparing to devour its prey. As for what he can really recall, his memory is limited at best to the pain from being ripped open. She picks up what Nicky can see is a straight razor, and his first instinct is to pull away from her.

“You need a shave,” she says simply. “I, perhaps, am the most qualified.” 

Nicky says nothing, but lets her set to work. While he remembers her giving him a shave with a dagger in the past, this manages to fill him with a horrible sense of dread. Her hands are cold, and at least she has the decency to not shave dry, but she adjusts the position of his neck and begins shortly. It’s a close shave, the blade against his skin almost the most calming thing about the whole experience. She doesn’t deliberately hurt him, but at the end of every stroke, Nicky is expecting a nick that doesn’t come. 

“ _You didn’t tell them about Andy_ ,” Nicky muses quietly, though he’s careful about not moving too much. He keeps his jaw tight as he speaks. “ _You know they’ll find out if they have Kozak._ ”

Quynh hesitates, but she slips into Italian as well, though some of her words are older than what Nicky is using. " _I didn’t,_ _because maybe I am not ready to watch them hunt her down._ ”

“ _But I’m easy pickings?"_

“ _Yes, if that’s the answer you want to hear. Sebastien would have been the easiest to reclaim, but unfortunately, he was not the one on the rooftop._ ”

“ _He’s hardly a capable sniper,_ ” Nicky says simply, though he waits for the next stroke to complete before he says it. “ _Are you saying that you knew what would happen?"_

Quynh chuckles, her fingers carefully adjusting Nicky’s head again. “ _I haven’t been back for long, but I can tell you that I have figured out how to manipulate the system in my favor. Fortune favors the bold, Nicolò, and it took bold actions to be able to get you back here._ ”

“ _You managed to set us up?"_

“ _I was sure to mention a sniper in the job description. It wasn’t needed, of course, but it would split the group._ ” 

Nicky falls quiet, letting her continue the slow shave. His fingers curl around the edge of the table at the notion. They _were_ set up, but Nicky is willing to bet that even Copley didn’t realize it. From what he briefly saw, it looked normal–exceptionally normal. Maybe he hadn’t been paying enough attention, and was just excited to visit New York City again, but look at what it cost him.

Her foot is tapping the ground, a slow _click click click_ from just above his shoulder. 

“ _How long are you planning for me to be here?"_ Nicky asks quietly. 

Her face contorts into what may be confusion, as if she doesn’t know the answer, though she gives one anyways. “ _Here? Not long. A few days at most. From what I can tell, you and I are going to be going to various places until Kozak gets what she wants. Even then, I do not think you’ll be released._ ”

“ _You could just say forever._ ”

“ _Forever is different to you and I, and I’m not a fool. I know that before forever comes around, Yusuf will have found you._ ” Quynh’s fingers slip briefly, a sharp slice right under Nicky’s chin burns faintly. He can’t help but wince, the muscles in his thighs tensing up inexplicably even though it’s already healing. “ _And the war the Americans will wage on the world will be brutal as it is. Nicolò, you’ve fought in wars designed to purge before, what’s to stop you from doing it again?"_

“ _The time you spent at the bottom of the ocean clearly made you forget some things,_ ” Nicky says, his voice low, almost a growl. “ _Or you never really knew me at all._ ”

She huffs, pulling away with the razor and drying his face. “ _You say this now. In a decade, maybe two, perhaps your views will be different. That starts with giving the Americans the information they want, however._ ”

Nicky exhales slowly, letting his accelerating heart rate calm down before he answers. “ _Perhaps it does, but you know I never will._ ”

Quynh looks at him, raising an eyebrow as she pulls away, still cleaning the blade.

“ _If you wanted someone who would talk, you chose the worst person._ ” Nicky scoffs. “ _The Frenchman would’ve been a better choice._ ”

“ _We kept him for six months, he gave us nothing._ ” 

Admittedly, Nicky finds himself surprised, but deep down, a little part of him is smiling. “ _If you couldn’t get even him to talk…good luck._ ”

“What language is that?” Curtis’s voice asks from across the room. Nicky can’t _see_ him, but from what he can gather, Curtis must have just entered.

“Italian,” Quynh answers simply. 

“We’ll have to get a linguist, then.” 

She gives him a wry smile. “You do not need one, I speak almost–“

“You were once allies with this man, were you not?” Upon getting no answer, Curtis continues. “That’s what I thought. I can’t trust you completely, and even if I could, I would want a second opinion. Just in case. How deep did your prior relationship go? Was there sex involved?”

Nicky is quietly laughing before Quynh can get any words out. He can’t quite help it, the idea of him and Quynh together in any context outside of teammates is rather amusing. Whether it is Quynh’s relationship with Andy or his own queerness speaking, he can’t say, but it’s one of those two things.

“What’s so particularly funny to you, hm?” Curtis asks, wandering over to hover over Nicky once more. “Is that a yes?”

“ _He really doesn’t know I’m a homosexual, does he?"_ Nicky looks up to Quynh when he speaks. “ _I thought some poor soul would have told him by now._ ”

Curtis looks to Quynh expectantly. She sighs and shakes her head. “He just admitted to being a homosexual,” she tells him.

“Interesting.” Curtis smiles, though Nicky does not like the way he does it. It looks all wrong, like it is more a display of baring his teeth with malintent. “So, no women for this one, then?”

“Get away from me, asshole,” Nicky snarls, careful to be in the common language when Curtis’s hand rests on his forearm.

“I’m glad you remember how to speak English,” Curtis says with a quiet chuckle. He squeezes Nicky’s forearm, pulling away shortly and returning to wherever he was before. Perhaps behind a desk, perhaps amongst the boxes and bags in this room.

It’s strange, knowing he’s clean shaven now. Not that he could feel it, but it is rather unsettling to be completely out of control. Nicky shuts his eyes once he’s acknowledged Curtis’s far-off presence in the room, debating falling asleep. Is it worth it to try at this point? His body is exhausted, the only thing his body is telling him is _rest, please, rest_ but his mind won’t let him. No, his mind is too busy racing over all of the potential things about to happen, where he could be forced to go next. What happens if the group finds him? What if they don’t? What if he has to pull what Booker did to get out of here? 

Nicky shuts his eyes. Fuck. 

“ _They’re going to take you next, Quynh._ ” Nicky doesn’t look at her when he says it. “ _They’re going to put you on a table right next to me when they realize they aren’t getting anyone new, that it’s just us._ ”

She hesitates, a breath hitching in her throat notably. “ _That’s not the deal,_ ” she says simply. “ _We have a deal—I don’t get hurt by any of this as long as they keep finding information from you, or I manage to slowly give them more information I know. Or...I find the others. Maybe I find Sebastien again._ ”

Nicky scoffs. “ _Quynh, don’t be foolish. If nothing else, you should get out of here while you can. Before you get hurt, before they pull what they’re doing with me—please, you don’t deserve this after being at the bottom of the ocean for centuries. I...you did this shit to me, sure. I can’t blame you for being bitter, and maybe this is even payback for us stopping the search for you, but getting out of here now...might be the best option._ ”

“I cannot believe this—“

“ _Quynh, please, just consider it._ ”

She steps away from him, shaking her head. In fact, Nicky is still listening to her shoes clicking on the tile floors as she opens up what sounds like double doors.

“You made your choice. I’ve made mine,” she says, the doors slowly creeping closed behind her as the clicking of shoes continues down the hall. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank u again to my lovely beta readers, catching me when i'm slippin' up. goddamn would this be a mess without them. 
> 
> leave a comment if you enjoyed!


	4. Lorimer St

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Are you alright, Nile?” he asks, what she figures is three or four blocks from home. He’s wrapped an arm gently around her shoulders to keep her against him, which she’s ultimately thankful for. Her entire body feels heavy, and she is not entirely sure she could walk straight if asked. But! At least she can see completely straight, and she’s oddly focused.
> 
> “I was not expecting…not expecting the whiskey to be so… strong.”
> 
> Booker chuckles, shaking his head. “It’s cheap, but it’s comforting.”
> 
> She tears her eyes away from him and the smoke, her eyes focusing on the pavement ahead of them instead. 
> 
> “I’m sorry,” she says quickly. “I think I’m definitely drunk.” 
> 
> “I gathered, but it’s alright.” 
> 
> She shakes her head. Though the night is warm, she still finds herself leaning more into the side of Booker’s chest. She can hear him inhale with the cigarette, feel him holding onto the nicotine in his lungs and exhaling it. 
> 
> –
> 
> Or, Nile and the Gang REALLY Don't Know What They're Doing, but They're Trying, Dammit

“The CIA?” Andy shakes her head. “We’re sure about this, right?”

Booker nods. “It’s what Copley gave me.”

“Any...inkling as to why?” Joe asks, keeping his voice steady. Nile wishes she could have the level of outward calmness that this man has, especially given the current situation. Who the hell knows what he’s feeling underneath all of that. 

“From what Copley could find? They dug up what some of Merrick’s contacts were going to try and replicate, figured they wanted a try first. All they’re after is _the oldest one_ , and they’re going to try to weaponize that regenerative healing for a covert project, one Copley only heard rumors about when he was with them…and from personal experience, I know they have Kozak on board with them.” Booker hesitates, glancing up between the three watching him before he continues.

“Now, I said that Copley isn’t familiar with the program from his time with the CIA, but he _was_ briefly contacted within the last ten years, and any research he’d done for Merrick has been periodically requested every couple months,” Booker says. His movements are almost jittery, but Nile knows it’s not from the alcohol. “They requested it again a few hours ago, and Copley managed to dig around in the things they keep on the surface level.” 

Andy is quiet for a long moment, her eyes close to conveying grief. “Do they think Nicky is...?”

“You? Yes.” Booker shakes his head, flicking through the notes on his tablet. “I have a transcript of audio, it cuts in and out, but it _reads_ as someone is asking him if he’s the oldest one, he says yes.”

“Son of a bitch,” Andy mumbles, standing up now and pacing to a window. “Do we think they know anything about the rest of us?” 

Booker scrolls through more, Nile reading what she can over his shoulder. It reads like a report in which some things have already been blacked out and deemed classified, but what she _can_ see almost makes her physically recoil. She keeps herself steady, however, and instead finds herself making a face. What little detail she can read is already nauseating, she can barely imagine what it would be like for the people in the room itself watching it be done. 

“Right now? Yes, they do, but not much,” Booker says simply. “Anything they know is from Kozak, who isn’t there yet, so we have time before her knowledge gets there, and…” 

“And?” Joe presses, his eyes staring holes into Booker.

There’s a nervous chuckle before he finishes. “They know about me. Whatever they could get from studying me. And Quynh, whatever she’s told them.” 

“She didn’t correct Nicky, though,” Nile points out. “So it might not be as much as we currently think. Unless...they didn’t mark it down.”

Booker disagrees, “Oh, they _would_ have marked it.” 

“But we should err on the side of caution. She may have told them everything,” Andy counters. 

Nile finds herself asking, in front of the group now, “And you didn’t tell them anything, right Book?” 

“I didn’t tell them shit,” Booker says simply. It’s not defensive, just a statement. “I had something to lose, and I’m not going to blow it again.” 

There’s a heavy silence that settles between the four after Booker finishes; they’re true, they all know it, but the finality and firmness in Booker’s voice makes Nile’s heart sink further into her chest. She sets her hand gently on Booker’s shoulder, the silent _I understand, thank you_ that she feels is needed.

“Copley’s calling again tomorrow. We should…all try to rest while we can,” Booker says simply, taking his laptop and the tablet, shoving them into a leather briefcase that he slides on. 

Andy steps out, standing directly in front of Booker. “Where are you going?” 

“I’m going to get some work done. Elsewhere.” He shakes his head, slipping into his shoes and stepping around Andy. “Wifi in here’s shit, and I need to focus.” 

“I’ll go with you,” Nile offers without even thinking. Part of it is undoubtedly to keep an eye on Booker, but if she can make herself useful, she’ll try her damndest. 

They go to a bar. It’s nearby, it’s sleazy, and the bathrooms smell too much like piss, but Nile can get cheap beer and Booker can take continuous vodka shots like it’s going out of style. She’s been gifted the tablet while Booker takes the laptop, and he mumbles something about having chargers in the bag before he sets to work. Every now and then, while Nile is typing or scrolling, she looks up to Booker, watching the way he works. His eyes never leave the screen, even when he reaches down to take a shot, or take a drink from the cheap liquor he bought a bottle of (though, he’s drinking from a glass with ice, he isn’t a complete heathen). He’s clearly decided to be done with the shots by the time Nile is halfway through her beer, however.

Nile pours over every file that Copley has thus far sent. It isn’t much, other than confirmation that it is, in fact, Quynh who has a hold of Nicky. There’s the report she read part of over Booker’s shoulder, which she can read more into depth now, and she can hunt around and see if there’s any camera documentation included in the packet. Thankfully, there does not appear to be. Booker is clicking rapidly, his shoulders up to his ears when he occasionally breaks to type. Nile sips from Booker’s glass once her beer is gone, deciding she’d rather just share than ask for another glass. 

It’s the first time that his eyes split from the screen, and he seems to watch her while she takes the drink, but his eyes are gone before she puts the glass back down on the table. She pours more whiskey into it before turning her attention back to the tablet.

By the time they’re told the bar is closing, Nile’s eyes might as well be bleeding, and she is just _slightly_ leaning against Booker on the walk back. While she’d been able to get work done, even if it didn’t seem to be much, she’d definitely been keeping up with him when it came to the bottle, and she is paying for it now. He had over two hundred years to build up more tolerance than most could dream of–not to say that he is currently completely fine, but he is holding onto things much better than Nile is. 

Booker is smoking a cigarette while they walk, exhaling the smoke into the New York City night. Nile has never been a smoker, nor has she particularly enjoyed lingering around people who smoke as much as Booker does, but she doesn’t mind it right now. Maybe it’s the liquor talking, but the way he exhales the smoke is artful as it twists and curls up into the dark sky, and the smell is close to comforting. 

“Are you alright, Nile?” he asks, what she figures is three or four blocks from home. He’s wrapped an arm gently around her shoulders to keep her against him, which she’s ultimately thankful for. Her entire body feels heavy, and she is not entirely sure she could walk straight if asked. _But!_ At least she can see completely straight, and she’s oddly focused.

“I was not expecting…not expecting the whiskey to be so… _strong_.”

Booker chuckles, shaking his head. “It’s cheap, but it’s comforting.”

She tears her eyes away from him and the smoke, her eyes focusing on the pavement ahead of them instead. 

“I’m sorry,” she says quickly. “I think I’m definitely drunk.” 

“I gathered, but it’s alright.” 

She shakes her head. Though the night is warm, she still finds herself leaning more into the side of Booker’s chest. She can hear him inhale with the cigarette, feel him holding onto the nicotine in his lungs and exhaling it. 

He tosses the butt of the cigarette before they enter the apartment building. Nile stays against Booker the entire ride up the elevator, until they’re back in the apartment and he walks her to the room she shares with Andy. Nile’s jacket still smells like Booker’s cigarettes when she opens the door, seeing Andy passed out on top of the blankets in her day clothes. She shuts the door as quietly as possible, almost tripping out of her boots and yanking off her bomber jacket on her way to bed, but once Nile is laying down, she falls asleep quickly.

The morning light streaming through the window is what wakes Nile up in the morning, though her pounding head comes into focus quickly. Slowly sitting up, taking the room into consideration, Nile looks down at herself, then across the room to Andy on the other side of the room. She’s clearly been awake for a bit, as she’s managed to change clothes and is currently tying her shoes.

“I’m going to grab us breakfast–is there anything in particular you’d like, Nile?”

“Maybe some Advil.” Nile rubs her forehead, slowly slipping onto the wooden floor. “I’ll take whatever you want to get me, it’s fine.” 

Andy looks at her for a long moment, as if she can see through all of Nile and can watch the events of last night replay on a projector. It’s unsettling. “I can do that,” Andy says instead. “Joe’s gone off to try and research Redthorn _–_ it’s something Copley sent files to Booker on about an hour ago. If you get the chance, I’d read some of it over.” 

“Will do, thank you, Andy.” 

“Of course.” 

Nile is left alone after that. She changes out of last night’s clothes, stepping back out into the living room of the apartment. It feels so _empty_ when it’s just Booker sitting at the desk, Joe and Andy gone off on their own. She slips behind Booker to pick up the tablet, mumbling a quiet _good morning_ (to which she gets a _bonjour_ in return). The tablet has practically been designated as hers at this point, and settles herself down on the floor in front of the couch to flick through what Copley sent. 

It’s not hard to find, in fact it’s still an open app when Nile presses on it. She does her best to skim quickly.

 _Redthorn, initially founded in 2017 by Henry Curtis (PhD), was based upon the initial discovery of a woman pulled from the English Channel who claimed to have been drowning since the 1600s. The people who initially found her did nothing…_ eh, right, stuff on how they found her… _The agent who came into contact with her first was not until 2020, and she was taken back to Langley to strike a deal and be the baseline of Redthorn. Quynh, the woman is named, assured agents that she would help locate the four other immortals she was aware of existing so long as they were able to create immortals of their own (or half-immortals), and Quynh herself would not be a part of the testing. The first one brought to the agency went by Booker, though he was found alone and would not give up information on the other three. Redthorn held him for six months before he escaped in the midst of a transfer to a location where a Doctor Meta Kozak could be brought in. Doctor Kozak’s research was small and in association with a pharmaceutical company, however she has promised to return when Redthorn gets another of the immortals back.  
_ _Kozak has managed to begin research to fulfill half of Redthorn’s promise towards Quynh in regards to creating half-immortals via samples collected in Merrick Labs, which gives the agency free reign to do what is pleased with Quynh when the time is right._

Nile rubs her eyes, closing the document shortly. The rest of it seems to be fluffy words and overly explaining what happened with Booker, and Nile can’t bring herself to read that when she’s still bouncing back from a hangover. At least it seems to be going away rather quickly. While she is currently retaining the information she just read, she admittedly has barely begun to process it, but it’s something to work with.

As much as she looks into _Redthorn_ and _CIA Special Ops_ or _Testing Facilities in NY,_ or even trying to find an owner of the license plate gets her nowhere. Breakfast comes and goes, while dinner appears the same way. Booker has maybe moved twice from the desk, and said all of three words aside from the morning greeting to Nile. Joe returns late, admitting defeat and to not finding much of anything other than slightly outdated information on Curtis. Nile has still found nothing on any potential locations, and her head is killing her–undoubtedly from staring at a screen all day. 

Booker explains everything he’s discovered so far as he brews himself coffee (though mixes it Irish). _They’re dissecting him alive. A linguist was brought in from CIA Manhattan–no, I don’t know where it is, and Copley won’t tell me because we’ll get slaughtered if we try to enter. They’re interrogating him, but if he talks, he says nursery rhymes in Italian. At least…I think, the transcriptions are bad. The linguist has vomited twice and is no longer in the same room. Any footage I’ve seen is from a database, not lifted from the building’s system, and that footage is limited at best. I may have an idea, but I need to keep working, and it may give us nothing, so don’t hold your breath._

Andy and Joe decide to sleep in the living room tonight. Nile relocates to the dining table, still able to see all of them. Booker has asked for the tablet, needing the extra screen for whatever he’s working on, and he regards her with tired eyes as she hands it over.

“You should rest, Nile,” he says quietly, pushing the tablet next to his keyboard. “You need it.” 

“It feels wrong to sleep knowing what they’re doing.” 

“I know. It’s not going to get easier if this doesn’t work, though.” 

“Is there any way I can help?”

Booker shakes his head. “I don’t think so. Not right now.” 

Nile absolutely does not want to get some rest–she’s simply not tired at all, but she’s going to leave Booker alone to work. Yet, she watches Joe and Andy settle in nearby; it seems strange for them to inhabit the couches instead of their own rooms. With Booker at the desk, Nile settles back down in her chair with her sketchbook and a set of pencils. She doesn’t know what to sketch at first, though she’s still just trying to practice. Looking around the room, she starts with Andy. The woman sleeps like she’s dead, which makes her a good candidate for sketch number one. Andy’s face is easy to draw, Nile is surprised by, but she occasionally reminds herself of various tactics Joe had taught her just a few days ago. The line of action is where she starts, filling in the body and pose after that. Occasionally, she uses the pencil to measure the lengths of Andy’s limbs–God, what’s it called…? Sighting? She doesn’t remember, but sighting sounds right.

Next, she draws Joe. It’s weird to see him sleep without Nicky, mostly because he still sleeps on his side, but it’s like a large component is missing. It actually makes it easier to draw Joe, though, without having to try and see through Nicky to get to him. At least, she’s got most of the drawing done–but he flips to lay on his back. _Fuck._ Maybe he wasn’t asleep after all. She tries drawing this new position, though it’s definitely stranger than the first. It eats up a lot of time, which she doesn’t mind. _Now_ she can tell when he actually falls asleep, with just the slight shifts in his position that relax his body. God, is he usually that tensed up? Nile isn’t sure, but she’s pretty sure the answer is _no_. 

Booker comes last, as he’s the only one that’s still moving. She gets the base part of his body done, the arms coming last–she settles on a pose he’s in where his thumb is under his chin, the rest of his hand curled but pressed against his lips, with his other hand on the keyboard. Nile likes this position for Booker, and drawing the chair and desk, laptop and propped-up tablet included give a bit more dimension to the sketch. 

When she looks at the set of drawings after they’re completed, she smiles a bit to herself and labels the page: _Brooklyn, NY, June 22nd, 202X._ It’s sad, though, upon second glance, that Nicky’s not there. Though, what’s also not helping is that she can see the techniques she learned in the class Joe took her to, and when she looks down at the page again, she can see more than just one or two of said techniques. Back when whatever fucked up family this is was whole. She shuts the sketchbook and rests her head on it, closing her eyes for just a moment. Just a quick break for her eyes, seeing as they got a bit strained in the mostly-dark room. Yet, when she opens them again, it’s because there’s sunlight streaming in. Booker fell asleep at the laptop, though clearly not too long ago, as the page he was last on is still open and on display. 

“Behind you,” Andy says, her voice quiet but reassuring. At least she had the courtesy to say something before it surprised Nile.

Nile turns still, giving Andy a once-over as she starts to brew coffee. “It feels early,” she mumbles. 

“It’s eight am,” Andy tells her. “Booker passed out five minutes ago, Joe’s taking a shower.” 

“Oh God.” Nile shakes her head, glancing around the room once more. “This…all of this really is happening then, huh?”

“Yeah, it is. I called Copley about twenty minutes ago–he’s keeping tabs on everything that’s been happening, but it’s narrowed down to a secure building on the edge of the city and he’s never been to it.” Andy’s voice is staying steady today, though she’s pulled out three mugs. By now, she knows how Nile likes her coffee. “I’m waking Booker back up in thirty minutes to have him either move to a couch or have coffee, you think you could take over for him if he needs to sleep?” 

“I can do my best,” Nile promises.

“I appreciate it, Nile.” Andy smiles a small, tired smile. “There’s only so much we can do right now, I really appreciate _you_.” 

Nile doesn’t like the way she says the words, but she pulls Andy in for a tight hug nonetheless. It takes a moment of consideration before Nile can pinpoint what in Andy’s words she exactly didn’t like, but it hits her like a truck when she feels Andy hug her back; _you’re going to be great for them when I’m gone._

Hiding her face briefly in Andy’s shoulder, Nile pulls away carefully, turning to the cup of coffee on the table. At the mere _thought_ of Andy’s mortality, she wants to throw it out the window, but Nile keeps herself restrained. She sips on it, keeping the bubbling emotions deep down and away from becoming a lump in her throat. Andy mumbles something about a shower before claiming she’s going to go find breakfast again, and Nile finds herself left alone at the table in complete silence. 

She chews on the inside of her cheek, fighting back every emotion that she could be feeling. Nile _knows_ she’s allowed to cry if she feels like she needs it, but she also knows that if she does, a group of immortal warriors is going to descend onto her and try to have group therapy. Not that it would be a bad thing if that were to happen, in fact it may even be beneficial, but it isn’t something she’s entirely sure she can take. She can feel her cheeks getting damp, and she pushes her coffee away so she can cross her arms on the table, resting her head on them.

_God, why does everything have to suck?_

She sits up shortly, not giving herself nearly enough time, but Nile is convinced that she doesn’t need time. Not right now. 

She wipes her cheeks, exhaling slowly and reaching out to take her coffee and sip at it. Still warm, but not hot. Acceptable. Movement from the kitchen draws her eye over to Joe, who’s pouring himself his own cup. He’s dressed to leave the apartment, though it would normally be strange, Nile isn’t going to press him on going out. Not now.

“Everything okay?” he asks, his voice quiet. Maybe for Booker sleeping, maybe because he feels no need to be louder, or perhaps he simply knows the answer. 

“…no. No, everything fucking sucks,” Nile admits. “And there’s only so much I can do, and what I can do makes no difference.” 

Joe puts down the coffee slowly, wandering over to take a seat next to Nile. Undoubtedly, she knows she probably looks like shit, but when she actually takes a second to look at Joe, she realizes he’s not faring much better. 

“We’ll figure all of this out, we always do,” he tells her. “I hate this, more than you do, but we’re doing what we can…and we’re not gonna stop until everything’s right, okay?”

She looks at him, chewing on the inside of her cheek again. Nile nods. 

Joe carefully wraps her in a hug. It’s not like his usual embraces, no, this one is tighter, maybe even more desperate. Like he’s clinging onto what he has left. Oh, God, Nile’s going to cry again if she keeps thinking down those paths. She settles for hugging him back, taking a few slow exhales to calm herself back down. Officially, she’s fine when she pulls away from the hug and mumbles a soft _thanks._ Joe smiles kindly, but goes back to the espresso machine.

He disappears from the apartment within ten minutes with a quiet goodbye and a promise to be back by dinner–he says he can’t sit around the apartment and wait for answers, not with what’s happening to Nicky. Nile can’t blame him. Soon enough, however, she’s wandering over to Booker and setting a hand on his shoulder.

“Booker? …Book?” She gives his shoulder a squeeze, hesitating. “Sebastien?”

There’s a sharp inhale, Booker slowly sitting up while Nile takes a step back to watch him. He rubs his eyes, sitting up slowly and stretching, swearing softly in French as he cracks his back. She can only sip at her coffee, wait and see if he has anything to say before she finds something to busy herself with. 

“Shit, fuck. What time is it?” he asks, still sounding groggy. 

“Eight forty-five.” 

“ _God dammit._ ” Booker is standing up, grabbing his phone. “I need to call Copley, see about updates–“

“I think…I think maybe you should try to rest,” Nile says, trying to be gentle. “When I woke up, you’d just fallen asleep, and that was a half-hour ago. And Andy already called Copley this morning.” 

“A half hour is enough–“

“No, no it isn’t. I can take over, it’s alright, just try to get a bit of rest.” 

He looks at her, clearly shocked, but he hesitates and glances briefly to the computer, then back to Nile. His eyebrows furrow together, clearly another thought running through his head, before he lets the hand that was raking his fingers through his hair fall to his side.

“Three hours at most,” he agrees, though his words are slow coming out. “Wake me up if you find anything.” 

“Of course, you’ll be the first to know.” Pause. “Also...Book? It’s Wednesday.” 

“Fuck, I–thank you. Nile.” 

Nile waits for him to go back to his room, though he leaves the door open when he does. Sitting down at the chair, Nile’s first steps are to see what Booker managed to get done last night, which…is a surprising amount. 

_Jesus Christ._

Booker managed to track the car, stoplight by stoplight, based off of the license plate up into the Bronx. Nile, regrettably, spends the next three hours continuing where he left off. It’s a slow, tedious method, but when the alternative is trying to find locations of a highly secretive organization that even _Copley_ who fucking _worked for them_ couldn’t find, it’s the best option. Andy brings back breakfast, which Nile barely pokes at. This time, Andy sticks around, and tries to make Nile eat more to no avail. Andy spends an hour having Nile recap everything they know so far, scribbling down notes on a legal pad while she does. It’s all word-vomit, Nile doesn’t even realize she knew half of what she’s saying, but saying out loud also hasn’t helped give her an idea of something she could’ve missed.

Booker returns to the living room by one, not looking any better, but he leans on the back of Nile’s chair and asks for a status update.

Her eyes feel like they’re fucking bleeding from this, but she shakes her head. Two-point-three miles, most of it going up a major street. She briefly lost the car, but found it’d turned down a smaller street. Booker offers her the tablet, with a suggestion to look more into the Linguist, and he resumes with tracking the car the long and hard way. 

The rest of the day is spent getting a small area mapped out, once the linguist offers nothing, where they lose the car and have to assume that the final destination is somewhere in a clump of buildings. Nile begins looking into building records, hoping and praying for the best. She doesn’t eat dinner, she only takes brief naps for an hour or so at a time, but continues looking through records and permits. Blueprints, if she can find them.

She sleeps for three hours and wakes up at dawn, making herself coffee. Booker is still at the laptop, and Nile can see Joe on the couch, but she doesn’t know when he came back. Setting down an extra cup next to Booker, she watches him rake his fingers nervously through his hair time and time again. There’s almost a nervous jitter he has, but he shakes his head and pulls out a box of cigarettes. As he stands to go outside, he carefully picks up the mug and glances back to Nile.

“ _Merci, ange._ ”

She nods, though she doesn’t totally understand his words (together, they sound closer to “mercy orange” than anything else, though she’s fully aware that’s _not_ what he said), yet she watches him slip onto the balcony. Nile goes back to the tablet, sipping the coffee and trying to wake herself up. Is it working? She hopes so. Building records and permits are incredibly boring, she’s come to realize, and the blueprints and floor plans all start to blend together when she’s been doing this all night. Until…

Nile shoots out of her chair, immediately dialing Copley, holding the phone with her shoulder so she can use both hands to work the tablet. It’s a suspicious building, that much is instantly clear, what with the fact that it has an underground layer that goes deep and seems too far underground for the area. Easily, upon further investigation. 

“ _Hello? Nile, is that you?"_

“Hi, yes, me,” she says, holding in the smile when he answers. “I know we narrowed it down to a couple blocks of buildings last night, but I found something I want you to check me out on. It looks really suspicious, and I’d be willing to bet it’s _something_ even if it’s not directly related.” 

Joe has sat up from the couch now, watching her curiously for a moment before wandering over to watch over her shoulder. Nile hardly cares, she’s sending Copley the address. 

The reply takes a couple minutes. A few minutes that Nile is checking over her work and crossing her fingers, hoping–no, praying–that this is it. 

“ _This…this is where the Linguist was sent,_ ” Copley says, his voice seeming close to disbelief. “ _I plugged in the address and suddenly…fuck, everything’s here. He’s there, I’m sure of it. I don’t think you will have too much time to fish him out though–_ “

“Copley, you’re a saint. Gotta go now. Thank you.” 

Nile hangs up before he can say anything to her, and Joe is already moving. Either he could hear what Copley was saying, or the answer was clear through Nile’s words. Even Booker is staring in through the glass with a curious expression, while Andy’s wandered out for the morning. 

“What’s the noise about?” she asks. If Nile didn’t know better, she’d maybe say that there was a flicker of hope in Andy’s eyes. But she _does_ know better.

“We found him, but we gotta act now.” 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i love nile freeman. that's all.


	5. Freeman St

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So, who’s Yusuf?” Curtis asks blankly once he’s accepted the silence as a lack of answer. He’s sharpening something, Nicky can’t tell what, and occasionally tapping something cool but sharp to his shoulder.
> 
> His heart sinks through his chest at the question. Nicky knew it would happen, he knew they would be listening in, but he has not been anticipating them asking questions so soon. Good Lord, just the mere thought of them trying to bring Joe in would potentially kill Nicky on the spot, or he might try to make another break for it. 
> 
> “Sensitive subject, I see,” he continues. “Well, I’ll figure it out sooner or later, you know. Whether it is you who gives me the answer or not.” 
> 
> Nicky stays silent. The tap of the cool material comes back, but this time with a little shock that electrifies Nicky’s whole body. 
> 
> “Where are you from, Nicolò?”
> 
> “Genova.” 
> 
> “Where the fuck is that, Italy? Greece?”
> 
> –
> 
> Or, Nicky's Patience is Really Being Tested

Nicky’s voice is a low hum to Quynh as she stands next to him, though his language has yet to leave Italian. “ _I hate to say it, but I’m glad it wasn’t Yusuf._ ”

“ _Why is that?_ ” She seems genuinely curious if nothing else. Her hands are resting on the table, near his own hand, yet he does nothing about it.

“ _I get the feeling that these people would not take too kindly to a brown man–fuck, did you see their reaction when I briefly tried Arabic? I’m Italian and I got five sets of eyes staring bullets into me._ ” Nicky huffs, shutting his eyes. He’s glad they’re alone, even if he knows people are listening. “ _I do not know. If this had to happen…if there was no way around it, I’m glad it was me._ ”

Quynh genuinely laughs quietly. “ _How can you say that, Nicolò? You’re going to be put through hell, you know this, yes?_ ”

“ _I know this._ ”

“ _And yet you can say that you’re glad that it is you and not anyone else?_ ”

“ _I’d rather it was me than even you, Quynh._ ” 

Her smile falls, and she shakes her head. “ _You’re a fool._ ”

“ _Perhaps._ ”

“ _You do not wish that it was me instead of you. I’m the reason you’re here, it’s for my own benefit, and you’re just…okay with this?_ ”

Nicky nods. “ _You deserve nothing but peace, Quynh. And that means not getting cut open twice a day. At least, I think it’s twice a day._ ”

“ _It’s been three days, Nicky. Well, two nights, this is the third day._ ”

“ _Christ._ More _than twice a day._ ”

“ _We’re taking a car down south, I believe. Perhaps part of it will be by plane, I do not know._ ”

“ _I hope not. I can’t sleep on planes that well,_ ” Nicky admits, shaking his head. 

He doesn’t even know if he’ll be trackable once he leaves the city. It scares him, deep down, that he doesn’t know where he’s going next or for how long. If he’ll be able to get out of it by some miracle from God, or if he’ll be stuck there until the second coming of Christ. Nicky’s body is already in revolt against him; he’s been given water, yes, briefly, but the lack of food alone is starting to drive him a little wild. His stomach will ache from time to time, really not one of his favorite feelings in the world, and his head usually is in some state of pain near-constantly. 

Admittedly, Nicky’s always been crafty when it comes to food. He’s definitely never starved, and rarely gone more than a few nights hungry–even when he _has_ gone hungry, he’s never found his body drained of energy from stitching itself back together time and time again. 

For the first time in awhile, he’s definitely cursing his metabolism. 

“ _One of the agents was trying to make a pass at me earlier,_ ” Quynh muses, pulling Nicky’s attention back to the present. “ _That was…definitely an experience. He had some guts._ ”

“ _What did you say?"_

“ _Oh, I told him to fuck off. Nicely, though. Men don’t really do it for me, and even if they did…_ ”

Nicky looks up at her. “ _Even if they did…?"_

“ _My soul still belongs to Andromache._ ”

That hurts Nicky to hear. Just thinking of Andy growing old while Quynh stayed like this, or, alternatively worse (for him), if this happened to him and Joe. Nicky tries to shake the thoughts from his mind, but the doors open and Quynh’s head is jerking up to watch the entrance. 

“We don’t have much time before we move,” Curtis announces. “Hope you don’t mind me getting to work faster than usual, I’m on a tight schedule and this needs to be in the box before noon so it can get shipped by five.” 

Nicky peers over to Curtis, watching him return with the needle. _Oh Christ, this shit again,_ Nicky’s thoughts echo. He hates it, abhorrently, though it’s better than being ripped open again. No, instead, he gets two liters of blood drained from his body and set aside for _later use_ , whatever that means. He doesn’t have the capacity to try to imagine what they plan to do with his blood of all things, let alone so much of it. 

Exsanguination is a death Nicky has encountered far too many times, but never like this. He doesn’t just _pass out_ while Curtis is draining him. When he’s starting to come back to, he’s in the back of a van on a gurney, all of his limbs tingling with pricks and needles while blood slowly but surely gets back on its path through his body. He’s still tied up, though it’s looser on his wrists and his chest isn’t strapped down either. _Good_. 

Nicky is giving his body time to fully recover while taking the chance to observe the others in the back of the van with him and scope out the scene. There are only four guards with him, who appear to be nothing spectacular, and Nicky’s sure he can handle it, even in his current state. The van itself is dark and reminds him more of a tall hearse than a van in terms of shape, but it’s almost entirely shiny metal inside with two tall shelves next to the door. There’s nothing on them. 

The movements he makes are agonizingly slow, but they go unnoticed because of it. That, or they’re really not paying attention. The conversation floating around is about football, not something Nicky is paying attention to admittedly. Fuck if he cares about American football.

He lashes out when they’re in the middle of getting excited about something. A quick throat punch, snatching the pistol that’s already equipped with a silencer and firing three quick shots. His shoulders slump once he’s acknowledged that they’re down, breathing out a long, slow sigh of relief. They’re clearly still driving, in what feels like stop and go traffic, which gives Nicky the chance to untie the rest of himself and carefully find his footing off of the gurney. He puts the pistol down, hunting around to see if there’s any sort of snacks in the bags– _yes_! Nicky manages to snag a granola bar, practically inhaling it as he searches for another pistol and extra magazines. At first, all he’s finding are heavier guns, which is not what he wants to be carrying out with him, but each of the guards had a service pistol on their belts… 

He takes the silencer off of one of the other pistols, taking the magazines out from the other guns and slipping those into his pocket. The pistol itself is a Glock, something that fits easily into the waistband of his scrubs. There are more bags he hunts through, looking for a shirt to throw on (he finds a long sleeve, which sounds like hell if it’s still hot outside, but he puts it on anyways) and he swipes a set of boots. He’s lucky that they practically fit, though maybe they’re a half-size too small, but with that set to go, Nicky starts looking into his exit plan.

The van is still very much in motion, and he waits for the gradual stop that he can assume means a red light before he exhales slowly, lets his heart calm down. Half of the hard work is done, but getting out? That’s the real challenge. If he just swings his weight into the doors, there could be no result, and instead of getting out, they’d become aware that he escaped. 

_Windows! Who the fuck puts windows in a van like this?_

Nicky scrambles to the back window, picking up a heavier gun and ramming it into the glass. The shatter comes quickly, darkened glass spilling everywhere as Nicky hurries to haul himself out. Bad choice in van, but he can imagine they thought he’d still be recovering from the blood loss.

When he hits the pavement, he doesn’t recognize the area. It’s definitely far from where he started, and the traffic is backed up pretty badly. It takes a moment to catch his breath, though Nicky doesn’t let himself completely recover before he’s running. Making a scene here is a terrible idea, and Nicky would rather get himself to safety than fight in the middle of a busy street. 

He’s made it a few cars back before he can hear the shouting from the van first, but it’s followed by men in black cars stepping out as well, and Nicky very quickly realizes that they _did_ prepare for this, and he is already running limited on options.

Making a scene _was_ low on the agenda, but Nicky isn’t above it now.

He rips the Glock from his waistband, firing two shots into the closest man in a suit approaching him with handcuffs, another shot into the next closest, and he’s back to running. Shots echo around him, and he takes the chance to duck behind a car and check the pistol. Right, is getting out of this even an option? Nicky sends a brief prayer skywards and comes back around the car. 

Another agent is too close for comfort, and Nicky shoots him in the knee, then the head. There’s more than likely fifteen shots in this thing to begin with, he’s shot five bullets…ten may be enough, reloading will take too long. Getting back to his feet, he’s not expecting the shotgun blast into his head from behind. For a moment, the world goes white, and he can _feel_ the shrapnel ripping his head apart before he goes completely down.

Had he seen it coming, it would’ve drastically changed his approach to the situation.

His eyes snap open when he’s in the back of a car, cuffed and tied, feeling marginally worse than he did before. They have _definitely_ done something to the bullets they’re using on him, because the same pain in his head from when Quynh first picked him up is back, and in full swing. He lets his head rest on his arm, giving up on struggling for now. Clearly, it’s no use, when they’ve actually put far more thought into his transportation than he anticipated. Let alone the simple fact that he’s not sure if his head could take another bullet. 

When he’s hauled out of the car, the light is definitely blinding, but he still recognizes that it’s the airport. In fact, he recognizes it as the same airport they came in through, except now he has been driven straight onto the tarmac and is currently being shoved up the stairs. He doesn’t get the chance to get ahead of the people pushing him up, and instead finds himself shoved into an aisle seat. It takes a lot for Nicky to keep from mumbling to himself, because while he knows his words would be the equivalent of spitting fire, his tone would convey what he’s actually feeling.

A needle enters his arm. It seems to be a specific location, too, because when it’s removed, there’s a cotton ball pressed directly to the inner crook of his arm. A quiet rush takes a hold of him far too quickly, and for the first time since his last night with Joe, he’s calm. Completely so. He just physically cannot make himself be paranoid, or hyper vigilant, or anything other than relaxed and melted into the chair. Though there are eyes burning into him, Nicky simply cannot find the will to care. No, he’s too busy watching the world slip away out of the open window. Though blinding initially, the light gives way to pure blue skies, the cityscape below shifting into a mix of mud and shimmering, reflective glass. Even the ocean, not too far away, is lapping at the beach shores, promising future high tides and cool relief from the summer outside.

He begins to fade in and out of consciousness (in and out, in and out) the further along they get in the plane trip. It’s close to nodding off, but he can’t quite completely fall asleep until the city is out of sight and they’re somewhere over New Jersey. 

It’s a sweet sleep, he discovers, even if it doesn’t last terribly long. When he wakes up, his head is _still fucking pounding_ and he’s hungry again. He doesn’t know what they gave him, not without seeing or smelling it, but he definitely wants more of it at this rate. If it’ll help him sleep this off and briefly be able to ignore all the flashing lights his body is trying to signal him to, he finds he would do a lot of things. 

Instead, he watches out the window. Quynh’s voice is audible from behind him, but looking back to confirm her presence is not a high enough priority to ensure he does it.

When they get close, however, he gets dosed up again. It’s almost the exact same as before, except this time he also feels all _warm and tingly_ inside, and also a little nauseous before it kicks in. He falls asleep again, this time as they’re descending, and he wakes up when they make contact with the ground. It’s a jolt that sends his heart fluttering into his throat, and his eyes are frantically searching the plane in front of him, next to him, behind him, for any sign of Joe before he realizes just a moment too late. The memories smack into him like an eighteen-wheeler made of lead, and though he’s still riding the rest of the high, he slumps into his chair and squeezes his eyes shut. _Right. Alone._

Even while drugged, his self-control is surprising even to himself. Emotions are bubbling in his throat, asking politely to be let out, but Nicky shoves them down to the best of his ability. 

Another car takes him, but he doesn’t fight it this time. He sits, calmly, in the backseat with his hands doubly cuffed and he watches out the window. An ache in his chest is beginning to bloom again, though not from any pain other than having to accept he was not getting out of this any time soon.

Greenery flies by, the trees a perfect shade of summertime. He almost opens his mouth to make a remark to someone that isn’t there, but ultimately bites down on his tongue and settles back one more time. He recognizes some of the buildings they drive past as being important American buildings–he recognizes the Pentagon, surprisingly. However it may be because they stop in front of it, and Nicky gets to watch a man exit the building and enter a car before they’re moving again. 

They go across a bridge and into a vintage (perhaps, faux vintage) area that reminds Nicky of colonial America or...almost _Nassau_ in the eighteenth century. God, that feels like millennia ago now. He can remember Boston from that time period very well too, and part of him misses that simplicity. Yet, he can say that he prefers not having to hide his relationship with Joe in as many places as he did back then. 

It turns into more brick before it pans out into greenery and _genuinely_ old architecture. Nicky has been on enough college campuses to know when he sees one, and this is certainly a strange turn of events that he was _not_ expecting. Then again, perhaps that’s the point. After a few twisting roads, Nicky finally gets his first glimpse of a passing sign, but even then it’s barely readable with the way they’re going– _University Hospital…Cancer Center._ That’s it, that’s all he can read. 

They’re more towards what Nicky can guess is the back of campus before they’re rolling to a stop and he’s being pulled out. This go around, Nicky can’t find the energy to fight against them more than the occasional struggle, though even that only leads to him getting a swift whack in the chest with that _Goddamn_ metal baton. It’s two hits that smack into Nicky’s ribcage, swift and in succession, that get him onto the ground gasping for air and spitting up blood. The breaks ricochet throughout his entire fucking skeletal system, and the worst part is that he can’t even push himself back up and fuck himself over with a quick “ _thank you sir, may I have another”_ because his limbs simply don’t want to acknowledge his brain telling them to move.

Nicky slowly but surely pushes himself up before they can step closer to haul him up, his ribcage still knitting itself back together as he gets to his feet. Spitting out blood onto the boots of the agent closest to him, Nicky narrows his eyes and lets them shove him along into the building. 

The room they take him to is on the fourth floor, and he recognizes the kind of room all too well. It’s just as sterile as the last one, tiled floors for easy cleaning and shelves of containers and medical tools in pouches, a cold metal table already prepared for him to be strapped into and a pile of equipment set up next to the table. The room is _freezing,_ and there’s another bench with a shitty, flimsy pad on it. Nicky begins his ill-fated struggle again as they back him towards the table, though there’s still that gnawing pain in his stomach and his brain is still threatening to pound out of his skull…

He’s belted in all too quickly once he’s stripped back down to the scrubs, left alone with Curtis and two armed men at the door. Go figure.

“Men from Langley will be coming up soon,” the doctor says as soon as the door shuts. “They just want to ask you a few questions, you may get to know some of the people your secrets will help.” 

Nicky bites his tongue and says nothing, merely stares at the ceiling while Curtis audibly fumbles with what sounds like a new set of tools. They both stay in silence for some time, Curtis plugging in something that makes a suspicious sound akin to an electric hum.

“So, who’s Yusuf?” Curtis asks blankly once he’s accepted the silence as a lack of answer. He’s sharpening something, Nicky can’t tell what, and occasionally tapping something cool but sharp to his shoulder.

His heart sinks through his chest at the question. Nicky knew it would happen, he _knew_ they would be listening in, but he has not been anticipating them asking questions so soon. Good Lord, just the mere thought of them trying to bring Joe in would potentially kill Nicky on the spot, or he might try to make another break for it. 

“Sensitive subject, I see,” he continues. “Well, I’ll figure it out sooner or later, you know. Whether it is _you_ who gives me the answer or not.” 

Nicky stays silent. The tap of the cool material comes back, but this time with a little shock that electrifies Nicky’s whole body. 

“Where are you from, Nicolò?”

“Genova.” 

“Where the fuck is that, Italy? Greece?” Curtis scoffs and taps the cool bar to Nicky’s shoulder. This time, the shock is more than just a tingle, it’s an entire jolt. “I suppose it doesn’t matter. I’m just curious for personal reasons.” 

Nicky is breathing harder now, the buzz refusing to leave his limbs now. 

“I imagine Yusuf is another one of you. Like you, I mean–immortal or whatever. I don’t imagine you’d tie yourself to someone with a normal lifespan.” Curtis is smiling now when he touches the bar to Nicky’s collarbone. “Did you meet in Genova?”

He has to clench his teeth, though it’s hard not to make any noise. The electricity that runs through his body feels like lightning, and wants to claim every single cell he has. Every muscle in Nicky’s body has become tense, his fingers even curling into his palms. When the bar is removed, Nicky’s chest feels like it’s had a hole punched through it, and his heart is threatening to pound straight out of his ribcage.

“It would be so unfortunate for Yusuf, then, if something were to happen to you.” 

“I don’t know what you’re implying _,_ ” Nicky finally grits out, his eyes narrowing up at Curtis.

The doctor merely chuckles, his hand running over Nicky’s chest. “What do you think I’m implying?”

Nicky may vomit. Though he can struggle to pull away from Curtis’s touch, he’s roped onto the table in such a way that it’s nearly impossible to avoid it. The doctor knows this and merely smirks down at him, his fingers grazing lightly over Nicky’s stomach before he pulls away. 

“In due time,” Curtis muses, his voice a rhythmic swirl that creates a vile loathing inside Nicky. 

The doctor audibly sets the bar down, hooking Nicky up to several monitors with deft fingers that have undoubtedly done this far too many times already. It must be late in the day, beyond what Curtis feels like accomplishing for now, because he leaves without another word. Nicky doesn’t get the impression he’s coming back. He takes the chance to shift and attempt something towards getting comfortable, and finds himself nodding off all too soon.

Quynh’s voice wakes him up when the room is lit solely by artificial lights, and she stands over him while holding onto the edge of his table. If this is a game she enjoys playing, he’ll play along. Perhaps it’ll get him somewhere, though he also knows deep down that she is only here to rub salt into his wounds and grin while she does it. 

“ _They’ve already created half immortals. At least, they think._ ” Her dialect is accustomed to Italian, it seems, when it comes to talking to him.

Nicky’s eyebrows furrow at Quynh, though he’s somewhat annoyed he was woken up for this. “ _You’re sharing this with me now?"_

“ _It feels like the proper time, there was just a briefing. They’re close, but not totally there. After five deaths they stop coming back, but it could be enough to do the trick._ ” She smiles down at Nicky. “ _With you here, though? Perhaps we could create more than half lives. Redthorn can make their presence more easily known here, and they think they could make some serious advancements in the coming months. Curtis was just talking about it._ ”

Nicky shakes his head. “ _How, Quynh? How did they pull off…half-immortals?"_

Her smile falters, which Nicky knows means he’s going to hate hearing the answer more than she hates saying it. 

“ _Children, born out of a bottle in a lab. There were six, they all had the same amount of deaths before they stayed dead_. _There’s some excitement about creating operatives solely for Redthorn purposes._ ”

Nicky feels sick to his stomach. He’s staring at the ceiling, trying to rationalize everything he’s hearing. Nothing is working. 

“ _A serum was tried, too. All it did on grown men was improve their ability to heal for a short period of time, but they’re close to stopping deaths_ —“

“ _And who are they testing this shit on? It’s not the soldiers in the program, it’s not anyone in this fucking agency. Tell me, Quynh, who is getting these serums? Is it the innocent people they claim to want to save? Or is it people like me, who have no say in the matter?"_ He can’t help that he scoffs. “ _Even you surely still have morals against hurting children–fucking children, Quynh. They’ve done nothing wrong, they’ve barely experienced life as it is, they can’t even completely decipher right from wrong yet._ ” 

“ _They’ll be taught wrong, that’s how this works. It’s better to take care of the problem before it even exists–a cultural reset. Completely._ ”

Nicky finds himself laughing, shaking his head. “ _Oh, Quynh. You can’t play God, nobody can. Even if you were to try, you flood the world with death and destruction, then what? Once everyone’s dead but you and I, what then? Do you sit out the rest of your immortal years on a lonely planet, or do you think you will be able to recraft humanity in the way you see fit?"_

“ _I don’t know what I think, Nicolò. I don’t need to know what I think, all I know is that these people need to pay up for what they did–_ “

“ _You know damn well what you think, you just don’t want to admit it to yourself. You think you can become God? Good luck, I think you’ll find the loneliness that comes from that to be even more excruciating than drowning for another couple centuries. So, go ahead. Do what you need to do, but just realize that the inevitable pain and loneliness are a result of the terrible things you did to get there,_ ” Nicky spits out, not anticipating his own passion in the words. Though, if he’s being honest, he also was not thinking about them before he said them–maybe he’s just tired and hungry and _frustrated_.

“ _You regret saying what you did earlier, don’t you? That it was rather you than me?"_

Nicky quietly laughs again. “ _No, I don’t regret it. It’s still true._ ”

She stares at him, her mouth shut but her eyes not narrowed into their usual hardened expression. Instead, she takes a step back and excuses herself before leaving the room. If this is going to be how their relationship goes for the next however-long-he’s-here-for, with her leaving whenever he starts digging into her motives, Nicky will take it. If it means making her question _why_ she’s doing what she’s doing, and inching her slowly but surely back into his corner, he’ll do whatever it fucking takes. 

Nicky is a patient man, he can wait. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i put my beta readers through pain for this chapter (and more recently, shh) and i love them. yes i will mention them at the end of every chapter and no i do not care that i could just easily put it anywhere else. 
> 
> also, i have failed to mention it elsewhere, but there's updates every tuesday/friday for this fic. will be changing the description at some point, when i actually get the braincells to do it.
> 
> anyways stream perfectionist by will jay.


	6. Whitlock Av

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _God? It’s me, Nile. I know it’s been awhile, and I’m sorry, but I need help…_
> 
> In which The Guard fights in more ways than one.

The immortals fly into action faster than Nile anticipates. She’s glad they do, but she’s trying to catch up and make sure the little things get added into the bags as well. Extra ammunition, granola bars, rope, duct tape… 

Joe is packing guns into bags, Booker heading out the elevator to get his car pulled into the street and out of the garage, while Andy is memorizing the address and the varying routes to get there. Nile leaves Andy and the small backpack she’s packed over there to help Joe get their weapons together, and her eyes get big when Joe hands her a longsword–Nicky’s longsword–before she can even pick up a gun to pack. 

“Don’t lose it, or he’ll kill you,” Joe says simply. 

Nile ties it to herself anyways, even if she knows she’s only bringing it for Nicky to have a sidearm ready. It’s a weight she’s not used to, but she doesn’t mind it, and she gets her pistol tucked away as well. Quickly, she takes one of the prepared bags of guns and heads to the elevator where Andy’s waiting, Joe joining them when it _dings_ that it’s at their floor, ready to go down. 

Except there’s two people inside, also going down. 

“Is it Renfaire weekend?” the woman asks once the doors close and they’re standing in close quarters with them. 

Nile smells her shirt, just to make sure it doesn’t smell like sweat (seeing as she’s been wearing it for the past two days). Even if it did, it would definitely fit in with Renfaire aesthetically. At least, Nile _thinks_ it would; she’s really not sure what kind of bullshit the festival really is and she honestly doesn’t want to know.

Andy, with her axe strapped to her back, just nods. “Yeah, Renfaire,” she says with a smile. “It’s our friend’s first time.” 

Nile feels Andy’s hand on her shoulder, and she does her best for a convincing nod as well. “I’ve never been, I’m pretty excited,” she says, nodding in agreement. “Jousting…ale…fun stuff.” 

_Why doesn’t this elevator go faster?_

“Where are your costumes?” the woman asks, raising an eyebrow. It’s not hostile, but Nile does her best not to grimace.

“In the bags–we change on the way there usually. Especially when it’s so hot, a change of clothes is nice,” Andy continues, nodding along again. 

Nile is praying to God that nobody touches the bag that very obviously _doesn’t_ have clothes filling the majority of it. The elevator dings open, Andy grabbing Nile and Joe’s hands, pulling them out. 

“Oh thank God, Booker’s got the car. We’re going to be late and miss the tournament!” 

Nile lets Andy drag her out front, where Booker is, in fact, waiting with the car. He throws Andy the keys, slipping into the backseat fluidly while Joe takes shotgun. Nile throws her bag in next to Booker, climbing in and slamming the door shut. They speed off before Nile can even pretend to put a seatbelt on, though she’s adjusting the sword at her side.

“What’s the rush?” Booker asks, moving Nile’s bag into the center while Joe throws the second bag in the back (and straight into Booker’s chest). “And why aren’t these in the trunk?”

“We told the people in the elevator we change in the car,” Joe answers, “for…Renfaire.”

“Oh, Christ–" 

“Listen, I panicked, okay?” Andy sounds a little defensive, but she’s still laughing quietly. “What else was I supposed to say? We have a longsword, a scimitar, and a fucking axe–she said Renfaire, I agreed.” 

Booker chuckles and shakes his head. “Be careful of one way streets, Boss.” 

“Fuck.” 

Andy is speeding. Joe tells her to put on a seatbelt, which she does after two red lights. There’s no question Nile has about whether or not they’re speeding while they cruise onto the highway, pedal to the metal as they zip through traffic. Nile is aware that…at this time? It _should_ take them forty five minutes to get there, but the way Andy’s driving, it could be less. Joe’s leg is bouncing, Nile can see from her spot behind Andy, while Booker is adjusting his long sleeve and putting on gloves. Nile can _hear_ Andy’s fingers tapping the steering wheel, and it almost makes her want to start fiddling with something. Out of habit, she shuts her eyes and her right hand closes around her cross necklace. It’s been a long time since she prayed on her own, outside of a church, but she figures right about now, she could use it. 

_God? It’s me, Nile. I know it’s been awhile, and I’m sorry, but I need help…_

Andy slams on the brakes shortly after Nile’s finished her prayer, gripping the seat in front of her to keep herself from flying forward. Andy is swearing quietly as she turns out of the current lane, the positioning of her hands shifting to remind Nile more of pursuit driving. In a way, she figures it’s what they’re doing. The car Booker has realistically isn’t the best for how they’re driving, though; it’s a four-door BMW from the 90s. It’s better than the Mini Cooper, at least, Nile can say that easily. Though, there’s also only four of them for once…God, it’s weird to be a man down. 

Flung back against the seat, Nile does her best to stay upright when they’re suddenly speeding back down the highway again. The turn they take to get onto the bridge nearly sends Nile’s heart out of her body through her throat, but it relaxes again once they’re across the water.

“Ten minutes out,” Joe mutters. “Maybe less.” 

“Thank you,” Andy replies, her voice quiet. 

By the time they park, Nile comes to terms with the fact that she’s never been in a car with Andy (Nicky’s driving may still top this though) when she’s pursuit driving. Holy shit, Nile needs to catch her breath when the parking brake goes on. She doesn’t have the time to, though, when Booker is ripping bags open to pass up front and handing Nile guns and extra ammo just in case. Andy is visibly putting on body armor that Joe shoved at her, though from the rearview she doesn’t look thrilled about it. Taking a firm grip of her Smith and Wesson rifle, Nile slips out of the car. Nile is not the first one to exit the car, nor is she the second (those titles belong to Joe and Andy, respectively), but she eyes her surroundings as if they could spring out to shoot her anyways. Booker climbs out last, shoving the remaining bag of guns in the trunk.

“They’ll know we’re here,” Joe says when they begin to walk into the garage. “The block is undoubtedly coated in cameras, we have to keep a lookout.”

“And make sure they don’t panic and move him–“ Andy begins, but stops herself from continuing.

Joe’s shots are quick. Four quick shots, in succession, aimed for the rear tires of the only two cars in the garage. “That may help.” 

Booker has the audacity to faintly smirk. “That’ll do it,” he mumbles, shaking his head as they stop in the center of the garage. 

There’s clearly only one entrance in and out of this place, and Nile doesn’t even realize that the four of them have already gone into tactical mode without a word being said. Guns aimed at the door, Nile can only hope and pray that they don’t throw any bullshit at them before they can even get inside. 

“Stairs,” Andy mumbles from the back. “The elevator will need a key to go anywhere.” 

“What’s the likelihood of anyone being in the elevator?” Booker asks, his voice still low. 

Andy raises an eyebrow. Nile can’t help it, she does too.

“This is an old building. I’d be willing to bet…” Booker looks around the garage, holds up a finger, hands his gun to Joe and sprints out.

“I see he’s taking French leave,” Nile muses, glancing between Andy and Joe. “They’re going to kill us before he gets back.” 

“I wouldn’t be so sure.” 

Booker comes back, very much out of breath, but holding a crowbar and a large pair of…what looks like garden shears. 

“ _Oh_ ,” Joe says first, heading towards the elevator with Booker. 

It clicks then for Nile, too, and she asks Andy to hold her rifle so she can help Booker pry the elevator door open. As anticipated, there’s no car there, and when they look down, they can see it sitting stationary. 

“ _Et c'est comme ça_ ,” Booker says with a grin, checking the cutters before he holds them out. They’re long, Nile notices, longer than most garden shears should be. It’s a stretch, but Nile gets a firm grip on Booker while she keeps the door open, and he reaches out to cut the cables. There’s four cables, Booker is able to cut two before Nile pulls him back. “ _Magnifique._ ”

“Why the fuck do you have cable cutters, but giant?” Nile asks as Booker tosses them back into the garage with the crowbar. Though, the elevator door still hasn’t closed itself yet. 

“I’ll get those later,” Booker says simply, taking his gun back. “Thanks, and don’t worry about it.”

Nile rolls her eyes, but Andy gives her back her gun with a smirk. Granted, they didn’t have an easy exit now, but neither did these guys. Hopefully. 

The door Andy pointed out for the stairs busts open, but the four men that appear are shot down almost instantly. One manages to throw a grenade that Nile kicks into the open elevator shaft, the doors closing when she feels the ground shake just a _bit_ from the impact. 

“I think that elevator’s down for the count,” Booker mumbles, checking his gun over briefly while he does.

Nile looks over the men one last time, just making sure they were dead, before she follows Andy into the stairwell. She knows they’ll have to clear every floor, but she doesn’t even know how many floors that entails. The first one they encounter is kicked open by Joe, Booker entering first. Nile brings up the rear, protecting Andy’s back as they advance through the halls. The building looks old, even down here, though they’ve run out of natural light. Up here, it seems to be offices when they kick in doors, though Andy stops when she sees a taped note on one of the doors: _Linguist(s)_. The _s_ seems to have been added hastily on later, in a different pen color too. 

Nile gets the door open and goes through first, aiming the gun before she even takes in the room: two men, sitting at a table. A video feed is playing behind them, headphones connected to the monitor. She can’t help but grin while they scramble for pistols. 

“Yippee ki yay, motherfuckers. Where’s Nicky?” Nile asks, her voice low and threatening. 

It’s when her backup comes into the room, guns also aimed at the two poor souls, that they drop the attempt to pick up their guns. One points to the screen, the video they’re watching, and though Nile is tempted to shoot, she keeps her patience and wits for _now_.

“If I don’t shoot you, one of them will. _Tell_ me where he is.” 

“They’re stalling,” Andy mumbles. “They won’t talk, they’re trained not to.” 

One of them pulls the pistol in a snap, but he’s dead before it’s even completely aimed. Nile isn’t sure who shot, but it wasn’t her, that’s for sure. Suddenly, there’s four guns on the other linguist, who sits there with his hands up. 

Somehow, he’s the one who gets the shot in.

It smacks Nile straight in the chest, and though she goes down, she’s not out for too long. When she comes to, Joe is checking on her, helping her up with a swift “welcome back.” 

“We think the feed is from floor five–they start at one and go down. We’re gonna start there,” Joe says.

“Alright, sounds good.” Nile notes that Booker and Andy are at the door, guns aimed out into the hallway. 

“You good, Nile?” Andy asks. “Do you need a minute or are we good to go?” She definitely knows the answer when she’s asking.

“Yeah, I’m good. Let’s go.” 

They move out in formation again. Joe’s switched to a shotgun, and this time he’s in front. Nile is behind him now, Booker being the other half to the Andy sandwich they have going. The stairs are steep, but Nile takes some of them two at a time anyways as she hustles down after Joe, watching the doors for a prolonged moment while they descend. Floor five is marked by a red number, and they wait briefly to group up before entering. The large amount of gunfire as soon as the door opens is expected, and so is the grenade thrown at them, but Joe can slam the door shut and back away from it once it is shut.

“Well, I think we hit the right floor,” Andy mumbles. “How are we doing this?”

“Being underground puts a damper on things,” Booker adds. 

“Berlin, 1913?” Joe suggests, glancing around the stairwell. 

Andy nods. “That’s a good one.” 

“There’s also Moscow, ’98.” Joe points out.

“It’s not cold enough,” Booker says.

The door comes off its hinges, and Nile can swear she hears people coming up from downstairs. 

“Nile, do you know how to use that sword?” Andy asks, though she’s clearly already pulled out the axe and a pistol. 

She shakes her head as smoke begins to billow into the stairwell. “Not really, but I’m sure I can figure it out if I have to.” 

“You might have to.” 

The firing begins again, Nile checking the descending stairs and groaning at the sight of men coming up. She begins to fire, taking two shots each into the first two to come up, though she doesn’t linger and falls back to rejoin the group. 

“Berlin, 1913,” Andy says finally. “Nile, stay close to me.” 

“People coming up the stairs–“

“That’s part of it, don’t worry.”

There’s a fast motion forwards, and Nile realizes that Booker has rushed in through the door. She can hear the gunfire cease for a moment–is Booker that quiet? She can’t hear his steps at all. When she looks down, she realizes that his boots were left here. Huh, odd. 

The firing begins again, this time aimed _away_ from them though. It’s definitely what ensures the second round of firing, but this time sounds like _half_ of what there was. The smoke has begun to clear when Joe begins to shoot into the hallway as well, having switched to his pistol, and Andy moves in swiftly. Nile follows after mumbling a swear, her gun aimed, though it seems like Andy is going more for close-quarters combat. _Oh. Fuck._ Nile looks at her rifle, shakes her head and sets it down as quietly as possible. Booker is still on the ground, slowly but surely recovering from the shots. 

She gets a good grip on the pommel of the sword before she pulls it out, looking to Andy and watching her nod. Nile has to hold it two-handed, but she thinks she can swing it like she needs to. She’s seen movies, it can’t be that hard, right?

Andy leaps around the corner, throwing herself into action, and Nile has no choice but to follow. The axe swings fluidly, the pistol shooting anyone beginning to take aim who’s not in close quarters. With little choice, Nile throws herself in as well, her first movement to swing down on some poor soul’s elbow and _holy fucking shit that just went straight through_. She twists and shoves the sword through his chest, pulling it out afterwards and moving to the next closest target. 

It’s mass chaos. Before Nile knows it, Joe is next to her, shotgun in one hand and scimitar in the other, blowing out the brains of a man that had just taken aim for Nile. She swings the blade down, in return, to cut through someone aiming for Joe. It’s clunky and not her style, the longsword, and she knows she’s not using it right, but if she’s getting the job done, she can’t bring herself to care at the moment. Joe’s fighting has always seemed to be more of a dance, like a twisted tango of death, and watching over her shoulder, it’s almost painful to watch him carry out movements that should not be done without another at his back with the very sword Nile’s holding. Surprisingly, Booker gets the last shot in, having picked up Nile’s rifle. He turns without warning to the door, still in his socks, watching what’s been blown off but is mostly clear. Nile sheathes the sword.

“Everyone’s with me?” Andy asks from behind Nile, definitely watching Booker as well. 

“Yeah,” Joe says, switching his 12 gauge for one of the automatic guns on the floor. He aims it into the stairwell, over Booker’s shoulder. Nile follows suit in picking up a fallen weapon, though she switches out the magazine. 

“What’re we…waiting for?” Nile asks, looking between the three. 

“The rest of Berlin,” Joe tells her, his voice…changing tones. She can’t mark where it’s gone. It’s harder.

He’s the one to make the first shot, and it slams into the head of the charging agent. Nile stays to the side, crouching low and taking aim as well now. The next set of people to come up is a group of six, each one put down swiftly and before they can completely lock on target. One manages to get a shot in, but it goes into the ceiling. 

Nile doesn’t look away from the stairwell. “Is that it?” she asks, “Or we thinking that more are coming?”

“We should have some time before more come,” Andy says. “Book, get your boots, I got your back.” 

“Yes, boss.” 

Nile stays with Joe in the hallway, standing up to linger next to him. Looking down the hallway, there’s a few doors and a large set of double doors at the end of it, but Nile isn’t sure which one, if any of them, could be it. Her best guess is the double doors at the end, but would it be that obvious?

“Are you good, Joe?” 

He looks down at her, seemingly a bit surprised. “I’ll be better when we’re out of here.” 

He doesn’t need to say _with Nicky_ , that much is a given. Nile can’t help but wonder where Quynh has been, if she’s still down here or if she left. 

Andy and Booker return shortly, Booker in his boots again and Andy with her axe over her shoulder. “Next room?” she asks, nodding to the end of the hallway. “Or are we checking the sides first?”

“We check the sides,” Joe says, once he realizes she’s asking _him_. “Just in case.” 

“Book, you and me take right. Joe, you and Nile left.” 

Joe replies for the pair with a simple “yes, boss” and is instantly readied again. They split apart; Joe kicks the doors open, Nile aims her gun inside to check it out. Two of the three rooms are completely empty, but the last one only has a box on the table

Nile pulls the box down, her eyebrows furrowing together. In sharpie, scrawled across the side, reads _TO SHIP_ – _FRAGILE._ She’s almost scared to open it up, but she sets it on the ground and pulls the flaps open. It’s heavier for a box, maybe ten pounds or so, and Nile frowns a bit at the sight of the set of large, thick glass vials in racks, but something fleshy looking is on top. She pulls it out slowly, glancing back to Joe at the door. Though he’s watching the hallway, he comes over to kneel in front of the box with her shortly. Andy and Booker must have finished their search.

“Is this…what I think it is?” Nile asks quietly after a moment of staring at it. She’ll never be able to come to grips with the fact that she could regrow entire _limbs_ if needed, but it hits a little different when it’s very clearly an organ.

Joe exhales slowly, flipping the bag over and tapping the label. He’s fucking _pissed_ , she can tell, but she reads the label anyways. _LIVER, SP: NICOLO, JUNE 22ND._ She wants to vomit at the thought, but instead she turns back to the box to pull out one of the vials gingerly. 

“Jesus _Christ_ ,” Booker audibly says from the door, his steps going out into the hallway as Nile turns the vial.

The liquid inside is thick and red, obviously blood. Anger is bubbling up through her throat; she wants to scream, she wants to cry, she wants to snap the neck of whoever did this to her friend. She grips the vial tight, and instead of doing anything that her emotions tell her she craves, she chucks the vial at the wall. It turns and shatters against the blue paint, blood spilling down and onto the carpeted floor. She _knows_ there easily are three liters sitting in the box alone (less, now), and as she stands back up, she sticks a new magazine in her gun. 

Joe is more restrained when he stands back up, but when he checks his own magazine, it _slams_ back into his gun. There’s a fire burning in his eyes, his shoulders are back and his chin is up. He sets his jaw (something she would usually have only seen _Nicky_ do) and chambers the next shot roughly, glancing back to Nile for a brief moment. _God be with whatever man gets between him and Nicky right now_ , she finds herself thinking. 

“Let’s find them,” she says, her voice a level of calm that even she wasn’t expecting. “Yeah? They should be down the hall?”

“Theoretically,” Booker tells her, though it’s muffled from his position in the hallway. 

Nile follows them out, taking over leading them down the hall. A set of double doors are the only thing they haven’t gone into yet, and Nile easily kicks them open and aims her gun as she takes the fated steps inside. _This is it, thank God, we can go back to normal–_

When Nile steps into the room, she knows something is drastically wrong. The room is fucking empty. It’s obvious, really, but it hits her wrong and an internal sense of panic fills her all too quickly. Was this a setup? Did they know they were coming? What washes over her in tidal waves is something she hasn’t felt in a very, very long time, and it’s telling her to breathe in and out slowly and _calm down._

Booker has started investigating the rest of the room, and he gives a quiet _clear_ before much time as passed. He’s already found a computer to busy himself with, and part of Nile is jealous. It’s difficult, she doesn’t want to at all, but Nile glances to Joe to gauge what he’s feeling. His eyes are trained on the table, though his head is still slightly bowed. With the shoulders slumped inwards and the slow, deep breaths that seem to be coming from a chest that’s all too small, he brings his free hand (curled into a fist) to his face and presses his thumb to his lips. 

Perhaps what is the most unsettling is that his eyes are empty. Completely blank, devoid of any form of hope. 

“He was here,” Andy says quietly, though she waits what feels like several minutes to say it. “This is the room from the feed–we got the right place.”

“We were wrong,” Joe says curtly. He slowly shakes his head.

“It was probably a video, Boss,” Booker adds, though his voice takes a lower pitch.

“Why would they move him _now_?” Andy muses, seemingly to herself. “It’s too close, too much of a coincidence.” 

“You’re the one who says coincidences aren’t real, Andromache,” Joe states, his words clipped and hard. “And the one who put him on that _fucking_ roof when it was so clear he did not want to go. And insisted we carry out the plan when something was clearly wrong–but that’s coincidence, no? As far as I’m concerned, we just _fucked_ our best chance of getting Nicky back, but it was such an easily avoidable mess in the first place.”

“Don’t you act all high and mighty–” Andy starts in a low growl, her eyes narrowed in on Joe.

“As if I won’t be blaming myself for this for the next two hundred years,” Joe snarls right back, twisting to use his height to his advantage as he stands over Andy. She doesn’t back down, if anything she seems to get taller. Joe continues, “as if _I_ don’t take as much responsibility for this problem as you should.”

Nile and Booker make awkward eye contact. She’s unsure of whether or not to step in while they hash it out, while Booker shakes his head and looks back to the computer. There’s no way he could have heard her thoughts, but they probably had been thinking the same thing.

“We’ll get him back, we always figure these things out,” Andy tells him, her voice hard.

Nile doesn’t say it, she knows far better than to rub salt in the wound, but the first thought that crosses her mind is _I bet that’s what you said about Quynh, too._

Except, Joe seems to know what hurts most.

“You know, that’s exactly what you said about Quynh,” he says, stepping away from her. All of the oxygen may have been sucked from the room with those words alone, and Andy’s expressions seem to read as though she were going through the five stages of grief. “And look at where that got us.” 

Andy shakes her head and turns away to flick through a cabinet, though she’s obviously not _actually_ looking.

Nile begins to investigate the room for herself, seeing if she can pick anything up. More boxes are labeled _TO SHIP – FRAGILE_ and Nile doesn’t want to even look inside those, though she can’t imagine they hold more than the last one she opened did. Setting her hands on the table, her head lowers and she shuts her eyes briefly, just to let herself breathe and push down the feelings that are rushing at her. She’s overwhelmed, she can’t deny, but she can deal with that easily. What she can’t deal with as easily is the sinking feeling of doubt in the pit of her stomach that they’ll see Nicky in the near future. 

“They had to know we were coming,” Nile says, even though it’s almost hard to breathe. Her fingers twist themselves around the cross necklace she doesn’t take off. “Why else would they move him so quickly and leave behind things to ship? I don’t exactly see the logic behind moving otherwise, it looks like they’ve got something good set up here.” 

“We must be right on top of them,” Andy agrees.

“They left two hours ago, packed up four hours ago,” Booker says quietly. “They’re gone. And I don’t know where they’re going.” 

It takes all of Nile’s willpower not to throw something again. That had been cathartic, but she knows better than to do it again. No, she feels the growing warm dampness in her eyes and she quickly wipes at them, keeping anything vaguely resembling tears away for now. A hand places itself on her back, and she glances up to Joe, though she isn’t surprised it’s him who came over to check on her.

He tells her it will be alright, that they’ll fix this, but Nile can see straight through his words. It doesn’t help that his voice is hollow and lacking any sort of real emphasis. But, she knows damn well he’s trying to convince himself just as much as he’s trying to convince her, and it’s not working. She leans her head on Joe’s shoulder, staring at the metal table as Joe turns her to throw his arms around her in a hug. Nile holds on gently, chewing on the inside of her bottom lip to keep herself emotionless once more. 

Andy hesitantly approaches Joe once Nile lets go of him. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I’m sorry for what’s happening. It’s my job to look out for the team.” 

“No, I’m sorry too,” Joe tells her, “I shouldn’t have said those things, I’m just…” 

He trails off, and Andy hugs him. It takes a moment for him to reciprocate, but it seems genuine at least. An accepted apology, from what Nile can tell; though from living with them for several years now, she’s aware they both will be holding onto the words for months to come. 

Booker and Joe get all of the labeled boxes together, poking through each one to confirm the contents. Most are smaller than the first, Nile comes to realize, though that doesn’t make it any easier. After washing all the blood down the drain of the lab’s sink, Booker takes out his lighter to set what’s left aflame. He makes sure that the small fire started is safe from immediate sprinklers, but Booker sets off the fire alarm on their way to the stairs.

They leave the building after that. Trudging back up to the garage, they are still wary of more men with guns, though none come. Nile knows better than to believe that they’ve killed all of them–in fact, she’s more inclined to believe that whoever their commanding officer is told them that it’s not worth it to engage. She doesn’t blame them if that’s the truth. They slip out of the garage and slide back into the shitty BMW, Andy back in the driver’s seat and Joe next to her. Booker and Nile inhabit the backseat, but still seem to have managed to find ways to sit as far apart from each other as possible. Nobody says a word, but Andy keeps music on.

The CD was never changed from the last time Nile was in the car. She feels a lump in her throat but shuts her eyes as _Sigh No More_ begins to play. She’s grateful for the phone call she gets once they cross the bridge into Manhattan, even if Copley is the last person she wants to talk to right now.

“Hello?”

“ _Where are you guys right now?"_

“Er…we just got back into Manhattan, we’re going straight back into Brooklyn, not taking the Queens route. Why?” 

Copley sighs. “ _You don’t have the time, then_.” 

“Time for what?”

“ _I’m sending you the video, I hope you have the service to watch it. I’m keeping an eye on things, trying to keep tracking, just…get home for now, call me back when you’re there._ ” Copley’s voice doesn’t sound thrilled, but he hangs up shortly and leaves Nile staring at her phone.

It takes a minute to pop up, and Nile slides over to the middle spot in the back row so that Booker can watch over her shoulder. The video is on social media, captioned briefly with a simple “ _I’m going to the airport and NYC never fails to surprise me”_. Nile can see a few comments while it loads, reading briefly over them. “ _j_ _esus christ it’s jason bourne_ ” is the top comment, but another comment reads “ _bro you’re gonna need THERAPY_ ” directly below. The video is a phone recording, starting with a zoom-in on a van.

Nile turns on the audio, her eyebrows furrowing together. There sounds to be two people in the car, making remarks about people boning on the way to the airport, but the glass on one of the back windows of the van shatters out. Sure enough, out swings a familiar figure, and Nile finds herself glued to the scene that plays out before her. The two that are making commentary are still trying to be slick, and it’s somewhat amusing, until Nicky starts shooting. The video keeps going, all the way through with Nicky’s head getting blown in by a shotgun, and Nile lets the phone drop into her lap. 

“It won’t stay up long,” Booker says, shaking his head. “Even if Copley does take care of it, most places on the internet aren’t going to let a death that graphic stay up.” 

“You’re right, but…” 

“Is Copley tracking them?” 

“Yeah, that’s what he said.” Nile rubs her forehead, her hand drifting down to the cross around her neck all too soon after. “Doesn’t make it any easier.” 

“What’s up, guys?” Andy asks, her eyes flicking to the rearview mirror. “You know we can’t see, right?”

Nile explains as quickly as possible, though she can see Andy’s expression sour in the rearview mirror the further along she gets. She doesn’t even try to look for Joe’s reaction. 

“Joe, do you want to get a drink with me after we get back to the apartment?” Booker asks, though continues before Joe can get any part of what was clearly going to be a strongly-worded statement out. “I’ll explain when we get there.” 

Begrudgingly, Joe answers, “Fine.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i mean, we knew this was happening, lads. nothing comes easy around these parts ;)
> 
> we shakin' it up next chapter, too!


	7. W 4th St/Washington Sq

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His fingers tap the polished wood bar (mahogany, perhaps?) and words bubble inside of his chest. How does he begin to approach the subject? It’s so touchy, Booker’s deathly afraid of fucking it up.
> 
> “Are you and Andy going to be alright?” Booker settles on starting there, figuring it’s the best option to ease into things.
> 
> Joe chuckles briefly, though it sounds hollow. “We’ll be fine. We were both mad, but it’s not the end of the world. The situation just...it’s fucking terrible.” 
> 
> “Yeah, it is,” Booker agrees in a murmur, glancing to the bartender and mumbling a quiet _merci_ upon being given his whiskey. A smile is gifted in return. Booker continues, “are you...going to be alright? Finding boxes of anyone’s insides is hard, let alone…” 
> 
> Joe waits a moment, until he’s sure Booker’s just trailed off, before replying. “I’ll be fine, don’t worry about it.” 
> 
> Booker raises an eyebrow, watching Joe sip the Manhattan. 
> 
> “The truth, Yusuf.” 
> 
> –
> 
> Or, Booker Takes Joe for Some Drinks

Booker is many things: an exceptional dancer, a classically trained chef, an avid hater of Napoleon, a semi-practicing Catholic, a probable high-functioning alcoholic, and a caring friend. He won’t deny that half of the “caring friend” part is undoubtedly heightened in finding ways to make up for his mistakes, but it’s more than that–he genuinely wants to ensure that his friends are okay. For Joe, right now, Booker has conveniently found a way to get them to a bar. At face value, it’s a simple excuse to try and decompress, but they’re on the subway when Booker explains an email that was still pulled up when he turned on the computer’s monitor: _Stop putting Mayhem and Mis. bills on the company card–I don’t care if it’s technically work related, just put it on your own damn card._

“It’s not much of a lead, but it’s a start,” Booker says, adjusting his subway stance (he refuses to sit down at this point in time, considering it’s about to be rush hour) to closer mimic a surfer. Hey, it works. 

“You think it could be worth anything?” Joe asks. He’s been fiddling with his rings the entire ride, even if they’ve just gone past Fulton Street in Manhattan.

“I do. _Bills_ plural means they went in several times, and fairly recently, if I had to guess. That email was delivered at oh-nine-hundred hours this morning. They went _last night._ If we’re lucky, maybe we can find out a bit more about who took Nicky.” Booker shakes his head. “If we’re lucky, they paid with a card, and I can find their bank information.” 

“ _Company_ card.” 

Booker scoffs. “Eventually, something will turn up with it–” he stops for a moment, his expression falling flat before he continues, “–right now, it’s all we have to go on.” 

“ _This is...Brooklyn Bridge, City Hall. Transfer is available to the 5 and 6 trains._ ”

Joe does not reply. Booker knows better than to take it personally–hell, if anything, he _understands_ loss like this. Granted, Joe’s method of coping is more than likely _not_ drinking himself blind, that won’t stop Booker from trying to talk to him about his feelings while _he_ gets drunk and tries to commandeer bank information. The plan is stupid, he’s well aware, but it’s what he has to start with and Booker is phenomenal at improvising and adapting. 

Mayhem and Misery is a ten minute walk from the subway station, sitting on the corner of a less-traveled Manhattan street. East Village was always a place Booker particularly liked, a part of the city that he’d love to take a date to if he ever got around to that again, but the area was cute and pleasant to be in. Sue him, he enjoyed pleasant things like this. 

It’s early enough in the day that the bar is almost empty when they walk in, more than likely having just opened. Only one person is behind the bar–a tall man, definitely a bit taller than Booker, with short, dark hair and sharp features. He’s wearing a vest and a bowtie, which suits him well considering how lanky he is. 

Booker and Joe are greeted with a typical _hello, welcome_ from the man. He’s got the faintest trace of an accent, but Booker can’t determine what _kind_ of accent. They take a seat at the end of the bar, where they can still see the TV if desired (there’s a football game on–real football, not American football) though the sound is off and quiet music is floating through instead. Booker slides a menu over to Joe, though he doesn’t even need to look before he knows what to ask for. 

Two glasses of water are set down first, and Booker finds that he’s really taking a look at the bartender. He’s unassuming, but still an attractive guy, and suddenly he’s glad he wore his white short-sleeve that’s just a _little_ too small. 

Booker starts by asking for a particularly strong malt whiskey, while Joe opts for a Manhattan. 

“Do you want any deviled eggs, too?” he asks Joe, glancing over to his friend briefly once the bartender has vanished to the other end of the bar. “Or, there’s also short rib sliders.” 

“I’m not that hungry, but I’ll pick at whatever you get.” 

His fingers tap the polished wood bar (mahogany, perhaps?) and words bubble inside of his chest. How does he begin to approach the subject? It’s so touchy, Booker’s deathly afraid of fucking it up.

“Are you and Andy going to be alright?” Booker settles on starting there, figuring it’s the best option to ease into things.

Joe chuckles briefly, though it sounds hollow. “We’ll be fine. We were both mad, but it’s not the end of the world. The situation just...it’s fucking terrible.” 

“Yeah, it is,” Booker agrees in a murmur, glancing to the bartender and mumbling a quiet _merci_ upon being given his whiskey. A smile is gifted in return. Booker continues, “are you...going to be alright? Finding boxes of _anyone’s_ insides is hard, let alone…” 

Joe waits a moment, until he’s sure Booker’s just trailed off, before replying. “I’ll be fine, don’t worry about it.” 

Booker raises an eyebrow, watching Joe sip the Manhattan. 

“The truth, Yusuf.” 

“I can’t fucking stand the thought,” Joe finally says, setting down the glass, His hands appear to be shaking. “It kills me to think that they’re doing _that_ to him. Day after day. That they just...thought it was a good idea to rip him apart and vacuum-seal bits and pieces of him up like it’s _fucking lunch meat._ I...I don’t think I’ve ever _hated_ someone so much, let alone someone I don’t even know.” 

“Kozak is going to get involved soon. The doctor, from Merrick–”

“I know who Kozak is.” Joe exhales slowly, shutting his eyes until all the oxygen is out of his lungs. “I remember. And that doesn’t make this any better. She had vague restriction when it came to working in that lab, this is _unethical_ in every fucking sense, and it’s just pure sadism under the guise of science. I don’t think you understand just how _fucking angry_ it makes me to think that what I saw in that lab is not going to be the worst of it, and there’s nothing I can do. Nowhere I can get in the near future.

“I promised him, Sebastien. I promised Nicky that everything would be okay, that I would always find him. And look at me now.” Joe huffs. “I can’t even keep those promises.” 

“Don’t say that. We’re going to find him.” 

Joe looks at him, raising an eyebrow. Booker takes a long drink of the whiskey, a perfectly smokey blend of smooth oak and vanilla and hints of fruit. 

“We are. Don’t look at me like that–I know you alone wouldn’t stop looking for him if it meant a thousand years travelling across every corner of the fucking world. I...I don’t think you understand that I want him out of there as much as you do–nobody deserves the kind of hell he’s getting, a hell that I experienced first hand and can attest to the atrocities, mind you. Plus, do you really think Nile is going to give this up? Andy, even?”

“I don’t know,” Joe says quietly. “Once it seems hopeless? I don’t doubt it.” 

Booker is tapping the bar again, and he takes another long drink. Whiskey is not meant to be thrown back like a shot, especially not something this strong, but he can’t help it. 

“Yusuf, I’ve said it before, but–”

“If you apologize, I’m going to cut out your tongue and nail it to the bar.” 

Booker falls quiet, making eye contact with Joe. 

“It’s not okay. What you did was _not okay_ , and maybe I haven’t forgiven you yet, but that doesn’t mean I hate you, Sebastien. At the end of the day, you are still family, to whatever end. Family fights. We’re allowed to be upset with each other for long periods of time,” Joe tells him. There’s some sort of hard fire that’s lingering in his eyes. 

Though he desperately wants to look away–down to the bar, at his empty glass, the floor, anything–he doesn’t. He can’t think of a reply, though, either.

Joe continues, “I know what happened in Merrick’s was awful. I experienced that first hand. But you shouldn’t define yourself by your mistakes. How can we even think about forgiving you when you can’t forgive yourself? You really need to understand that you have worth, and a lot of it.” 

Booker is not drunk, but he can still feel something warm bubbling in his chest and threatening to make his voice thicken up. “You know it’s not that easy.” 

“I know, and we’re here to help you. We don’t _want_ you to be miserable forever. And it’s why you have Sandra to help you too.” Joe rubs his forehead, downing the rest of his Manhattan. “And we were stupid to disregard everything you said about Quynh. I’m sorry for that.” 

At her name alone, Booker’s chest gets tight. He swirls the ice around in the empty glass, considering switching drinks if he’s going to go through whiskey this strong like candy. Instead, what he decides to do is switch to a cocktail that’s arguably stronger. Who ever said he was good at making decisions? The poor barkeep is probably going to be confused by the two of them, and busy. While Booker is ordering his second drink, he puts in the food request also, figuring he may as well. 

“I don’t know what her game is now,” Booker finally mumbles, “but I know what she did to me was awful. And I know this seems _way_ more personal. Whether it’s for her own personal gain or not, either way, Nicky’s probably _fucked_ because of me–”

“This is _not_ your fault.” It sounds like Joe is fighting his words, but at least he seems to genuinely believe what he’s saying. “It’s our fault for not believing you.” 

Booker is, unsurprisingly, shocked. “She was talking about trying to become more powerful–she wanted me on her side to help create an army, and create people like us. I could look into locations and people, and handle the technical aspects since she didn’t understand any of it yet. Quynh asked me to find you guys, set up a fake job for Copley to give you where we caught you, but I…I made that mistake once, I wasn’t going to do it again. As you can imagine, I was punished for it.”

Joe says nothing, but he’s listening to every word Booker says, and it’s an actual layer of _understanding_ in the depths. 

“She’s angry at regular people for hurting her and tearing your family apart,” Booker continues, “and she wants them gone. All of them. Just us and people like us left. And from everything I’ve seen and heard, she’s going to inadvertently tear _us_ apart while she’s at it.” 

“It’s working,” Joe admits with a quiet laugh. “Look at us. We don’t have our shit together _whatsoever_.” 

“And I don’t get the feeling that Nicky is going to be able to successfully do what I did to escape. You saw the video, you know how quick they put him down like fucking Old Yeller.” Booker shakes his head. “He is, quite literally, fucked.” 

“I hope you don’t actually mean literally.” 

Booker glances to the bartender, taking the drink with another quiet _merci_ and a stereotypical _Sebastien le Livre_ smile that is all too fake in this current moment in time. He waits for the man to walk away again before he continues.

“If it’s the same doctor that was working on me? I hate to say it, but…”

“I am actually going to _fucking kill_ that man if he so much as–” 

“You and I both know you’re going to kill him no matter what,” Booker states plainly. “He knows too much about us, and he’s going to create something that could easily bring _a lot_ of evil into the world. Perfect justification, personal reasons aside.” 

Joe falls quiet, looking taken aback for a moment. “You’re right,” he mumbles. “But the problem is we have to _find_ the fucker first.” 

“ _And how do we even approach finding them if Quynh is with the...company?"_ Booker asks, switching his language to French. It feels oddly right now, especially as a few more people have begun to enter the bar.

He seems to catch Booker’s drift quickly, though his French is much slower (undoubtedly simply from not speaking it). “ _That’s a question for Copley, or...you, I suppose. They’ve gotta be handing him over to some sort of hospital or testing facility, there’s no way they’re just going to lock him up forever, not when they clearly know about the immortality._ ” 

“ _I’m asking for ideas to get started, Joe._ ”

“ _Is there nothing you can track?"_

Booker opens his mouth to reply when it hits him like an eighteen-wheeler gas truck that Joe did not speak. Slowly, he turns to the bartender, who is leaning near them with a wry little smile. _Fuck!_ Booker smacks himself mentally, wondering how he couldn’t have picked up that the accent he was hearing was vaguely French. _God, I’m an idiot._

“ _Are you from France, or did you pick up the language?"_ The man asks. Booker reads the name tag for the first time now–Gérard. 

Fuck.

“I bounced around,” Booker answers in English. “I’m from Marseille, but I spent a lot of time in Paris. Have good work there, I’m only visiting America.” Not a lie, though definitely not the truth. 

“We met in Marseille,” Joe adds. _That_ is definitely a lie. “I was visiting from Genoa.” 

Gérard smiles, setting down the plate of deviled eggs he brought back between them. “I lived in a little town outside of Toulouse. Moved here ten, fifteen years ago.”

“I’ve been to Toulouse. It’s nice,” Booker tells him. 

It hits him now that this could be the easiest way to see if there’s any information to be had here. Maybe, even, he won’t have to go blindly in, not knowing what he’s looking for. Gérard nods towards his remark, visibly pouring a drink now. Booker is curious, but can’t watch his hands when he’s trying to read his face. 

“I miss it sometimes,” Gérard muses, “but it’s pretty great here too. Maybe when I’m retiring, I’ll go back. _But_ , what you’re talking about seems serious enough to get the police involved, my apologies for intruding, so I have to ask…”

It’s time to pull out the charisma card. Booker straightens out, giving his drink a little stir and shaking his head. “I can’t say what it is we do, but what I _can_ say is that one of our associates was taken in the midst of a… _job_ , shall we say, that was going south. We’re trying to find him again, get him back home. We thought we found him, and the woman we suspect to be involved, but they’d been moved not three hours before we arrived.” 

“And there’s nothing you can track?” Gérard asks, setting a fresh drink in front of Booker. He’d already finished his current drink? God damn–oh thank God, no, he was just running low. “I’m sure there’s some traces left over.” 

Booker sips the water first. “I’m sure there are,” he agrees, “however, _l’entreprise_ is…difficult, to track. They cover their steps well–well enough that our friend could be here in Manhattan or Austria, and we’d have no idea.” 

“ _Américains_?”

“ _Oui,_ ” Joe says, stepping in. “I can imagine it’s more likely to stay in America, however…”

“Nothing’s out of the question. Anything to throw us off,” Booker finishes when Joe trails off, though he hesitates briefly. Lots of things have changed since Booker was the new kid on the block, but that doesn’t mean everything has changed. “Is there anything you may have…overheard? Within the past three days–it’s a big city, lots of people, I am aware.”

Booker’s subtle about it. He pulls a hundred dollar bill from his wallet and casually slides it over to Gérard, raising an eyebrow when he watches the bartender carefully take it. They all have far too much American money, especially considering they never wind up in the states for more than a few weeks at a time. Though, the more Booker thinks about it, the quicker he comes to realize he may want to slow down. This may be more than a couple weeks. 

“What do you think? Is there anything you can recall?”

Gérard looks at it, slides it into his pocket, and shrugs. “I need to know a little more before I can give a solid answer. We get sketchy people that come in every now and then–this is a nice place, you know. World-renowned. Plenty of people in suits with badges and government IDs come in, and they tend to keep their pistols on them.” 

“It would have been about an Italian,” Joe mentions, leaning in slightly. “Maybe something about genetics, or _the oldest one_ , if they were talking shop. Otherwise...fuck, I don’t know–oh! Also, this is a shot in the dark, but do you recognize the name Hank Curtis?” 

“ _Last night was their last in town,_ ” Gérard answers, switching back to French. “ _I only know because I had several...encounters, shall we say, with one of them after my shifts. An ID was left on my nightstand._ ”

“ _Can I just say I really appreciate this coincidence?"_ Booker says with a little grin. “ _It makes things so much easier for me._ ”

Gérard chuckles quietly. “ _Listen, if it wasn’t me, it would be Casey. You’re just lucky it was me that was working._ _But...Hank Curtis, yes. He came down every night for four straight days. Brought friends along. It wasn’t always on his tab, but…_ ”

Booker hesitates, glancing at Joe. Perhaps what he was about to do was stupid, but he had a hunch. “ _Was he a regular? Or did you know him outside of work?"_

“ _I don’t follow._ ” 

“ _I think I should mention that our business associate is his husband–_ ” Booker gestures to Joe with a jerk of his head, “– _if that makes things easier._ ”

Gérard has the common sense to look a bit perturbed before he answers. “ _If you’re asking whether or not it was Hank’s ID on my nightstand, it was._ ”

To think Andy doesn’t believe in coincidence. After the shitstorm that went down earlier today, Booker will take this. Oh, God, will he take this. 

“ _It’s not my job to comfort lonely men. But I’m not one to say no if the party is attractive,_ ” Gérard tells him plainly. “ _What’s his deal with you two anyways?"_

“ _It’s complicated,_ ” Booker answers before Joe can think about replying. “ _Very complicated. But we’re looking for him, he might be the piece to the puzzle we need._ ”

“I can’t help you there,” Gérard tells him. “I have no idea where he went, except that it’s ‘out of town’ and he isn't coming back.” 

“Do you know where out of town might be?”

“ _Non._ South. Somewhere. That’s all.” 

Booker slides another bill towards Gérard. “ _Merci._ ”

“ _They sat where you did now, and last night they spent a lot of their time being loud, they were here until closing–past that, even,_ ” Gérard suddenly continues, his speech quickening as he’s shifted into rapid-fire French. “ _They were talking about an Italian who sometimes spoke Arabic, I don’t remember the woman they were talking about, but I do remember the Italian…They talked of torture, murder, and something about biology from what I could gather, and they were upset about relocating. To a university._ ”

Booker can’t help but look surprised. A throwaway glance to Joe proves that he’s already scribbling it down. “Is that all?” Booker asks.

“I...officially, yes, I think that’s all.” 

“It’s more than enough, and I really appreciate your help,” Booker continues, nodding solemnly. “Last question, I’m sorry for keeping you for so long, but did they pay with card? Or cash?”

Gérard shakes his head. “Card. I know what you’re going to ask, but that’s illegal. I can’t give you their information.” His words turn quick and clipped as he steps away from the part of the bar he’d been leaning on. “I’m sorry. I wish I could help.” 

“I understand, thank you anyways.” 

He vanishes to deal with patrons that have wandered in, and Booker looks back to Joe with a quiet sigh. It answered their question, gave them a bit more information than they started with, but not much. 

“ _I have no qualms about fucking him to try and get it, if that’s what it takes,_ ” Booker says, keeping his language away from French and electing to try Arabic. “ _But also, the registers look electronic. If I can get to the back, I may be able to look through records there._ ”

“ _If you want to actually fuck him, I won’t stop you. But also, information comes first._ ”

“ _Of course, of course._ ” Booker could easily say that he probably wouldn’t fuck the bartender. The more he thought about it, the more he decided he didn’t want to. “ _The office is probably on the second floor, if we wanted to try to sneak up somehow._ ”

Joe quirks an eyebrow. “ _Where are the stairs_?”

“ _No idea, where’s the restroom, do you think_?”

Joe shakes his head, chuckling without any warmth behind it. “ _I’ll keep him distracted if he asks. I think it’s in the back, though_.” 

Booker is slipping off the seat, shoving a deviled egg in his mouth before he’s on his way. It’s empty enough that it’s hard for his movement to go unnoticed, but everything’s hidden behind a corner, which greatly helps him. Voices carry back here, he shortly realizes, and he can hear Joe (probably louder than necessary) give a brief explanation for his absence. _Magnifique_. Booker pretty easily finds the stairs, hidden behind a door that he picks open and enters without much work. He’s slinking up the stairs, his hand on his pocketknife while he ascends as quietly as possible.

He’s trying to hurry, admittedly, but he can’t totally run up the stairs without alerting anyone up there of his presence. Once he’s at the top, there’s no door, and the office is clearly wide open. He palms the knife, though closed, as he wanders in, taking it in. It’s a clean space, but still dark enough that it feels like a home instead of a rough second story office in a nice part of town. The first thing he does is go to the computer, swearing almost instantly upon the sight of it being locked. He’s rifling through the drawers before he can consider another option, looking for the one sticky note he knows everyone keeps…

There. Underneath a thick pad of paper with scribbled notes, a username, password, and…is that a social security number? Oh well. Booker enters in the username and password, crossing his fingers until it opens. His fingers fly as soon as it’s open; he knows his way around computers, not fantastically, but he’s more used to them than the others are for some reason. He’ll take it, though, and he’s been forced to teach himself a _lot_ of things. As he’s working, he’s humming quietly to himself, as if it could help. _One Night in Bangkok_ actually is comfortable on Booker’s vocal chords, but he hardly thinks twice until he’s weaseling his way into the dusty bank files. He rips a page from the pad (the last page, in fact) and starts scribbling down anything that could fit the bill of the time Gérard described. Name, date, time, and bank information. At least, what he can get from the records he definitely should not be looking at. 

Folding the paper up once everything’s been jotted down, Booker is quick to clean up and close out of his history, slipping back down and out into the bar. Joe’s watching the game while Gérard cleans glasses, and Booker can only adjust his rolled-up sleeves before he takes his seat once more. Joe asks if he drowned with an almost hopeful look, to which Booker quietly laughs and nods. _Yes,_ he admits, _I did drown_ and he leans back in the chair once more to sip at his drink. He has to look twice to note Joe’s reaction, but there’s a faint smile. Good. 

Booker waits several minutes, letting them sit in silence while soft indie music plays in the background. It’s a pleasant atmosphere, and Booker would love to come back and actually be able to enjoy himself under better circumstances. 

“Is there anything I can do to help you feel better?” Booker asks, wary of the potential for Joe to snap. He can’t lie, he spent half of the time they were quiet thinking of the proper way to ask.

“What do you mean?” 

“Okay, maybe I said it wrong.” Booker shakes his head. “I just mean...I know this is hard. I just would like to know if there’s any way I can support you through this.” 

Joe raises an eyebrow. “This sounds like Sandra talking.” 

“It’s not–it’s _me._ I am genuinely asking.” 

There’s hesitation before the answer comes. “As if you haven’t done enough already,” Joe finally tells him. “You act as if you’re not the main reason we were even able to find that place.” 

“Nile found it.” 

“And who did most of the work?” Joe shakes his head, slipping one of the sliders onto a smaller plate. Booker hadn’t even noticed them sitting between Joe and him, though they must have been delivered while he was being a sneaky little shit. “Really, Sebastien, did you think I wouldn’t notice?”

Booker goes quiet again, not seeming to have the words to reply. Because the truth is _yes,_ he was sure nobody would think twice about what he was doing.

Joe continues, “You practically killed yourself for three days straight, looking nonstop for anything that could tell us where he was. And I appreciate the hell out of it. I…would be lost, it would have taken me much longer to get to the same conclusion you and Nile did–” he pauses, taking a shaking breath, “–what I’m saying is that you’ve done enough. I appreciate that already, and you don’t need to act like you _have_ to do more.” 

“I’m not asking from a place of _have to_. I _want_ to.” 

The smile that Joe cracks is faint, but sad, and doesn’t last more than a few seconds. “I know. I...I know. Just sticking around is enough–I love you, man. I’m glad to have you on my side.” 

Booker is not drunk, but that doesn’t mean he’s not fighting back some sort of emotion bubbling in his throat and pricking at his eyes. It gets worse when Joe claps his shoulder, his fingers tightening around his shoulder for a moment before he pulls away. Oh, yeah, if Booker doesn’t drink _right now_ he’s going to cry. Hence the reason for him quickly taking his cocktail and having a large sip of it.

“Now,” Joe continues, having finished his own drink, “what do they have that’s stronger than this, do you know?”

Joe is pointed in the direction of a much stronger cocktail, similar to what Booker himself is having. They leave after another hour and several more drinks, and though Booker isn’t _drunk,_ he’s definitely tipsy on the ride back. If he had half a brain, he may have actually tried flirting with Gérard, but he really doesn’t think it would have been worth it in the long run. The ride back is quiet at first, until Booker slowly pulls out the paper and passes it to Joe.

“I’m looking into it when we get back. Could be a good lead, though,” Booker promises. “If I can’t get anything, and Nile can’t get anything, Copley is getting enlisted too. I’d rather fix our own mess, but if he can help, I’m not turning it down.” 

“You did good, Book,” Joe muses, handing the paper back once he’s looked it over. “Thank you.” 

There’s more to that _thank you_ than Booker understands. In fact, he’s _aware_ that there’s more to the words than he can currently know, but what he can do is fold it up and put it back in his pocket, say a quiet _you’re welcome_ and lounge in the subway seat once more, contemplating whether or not he wants takeout for dinner for the fourth time in a row tonight, or if he wants to get off his ass and cook. He decides, very quickly, he’d rather have Chinese again than cook, especially when he’s going to be at a computer all night, so he won’t bring anything up. 

Even though he technically _did_ get himself classically trained in French cooking, and it’s just a secret he’s elected not to share with anyone (except, the bastard Copley probably knows). Partly because he’s lazy, partly because he genuinely enjoys Nicky’s cooking and would rather just have that than make something that he has to have an internal debate on whether or not the group will like it. 

Booker barely gets the chance to take off his jacket before he sits himself down at the desk with the laptop and is slapping the list onto the wood. He hardly knows where to begin upon first glance, but it’s not long before he begins typing, getting a good idea for places he can look.

Nile and Andy go out together to pick up dinner, coming back with Chinese as anticipated. Though he almost gets chow mein on his keyboard, and definitely gets chicken on it (when he’s multitasking, chopstick skills go out the window), there’s ultimately no sticky residue by the time he takes a break to clean it. 

He falls asleep with his head on his arms, still in front of the computer, when the sun is coming up. Little progress was made.

The dreams that fill his head are loud. He’s running, _from_ something, sprinting as fast as he can. It’s gripping his throat, the fear that utterly fills him, but he can just hear the haunting snarls and steps hard on concrete. The steps only grow closer and closer the faster he runs–by now, the bridge of his nose has gone numb, his shoulders grown tight and his thighs _burning_ with the dying rage of a thousand suns. Fingers gripping at the first chain-link fence he sees, Booker hauls himself up and over, landing uncomfortably on his ankle when he makes contact with the ground once more.

His ankle is throbbing as he continues to run, but the shadowy beast behind him only slips through the gaps in the fence and rematerializes to continue to stalk him down the alleyway. Heart thumping louder and harder in his throat, Booker continues the dead sprint and curves around onto the main road. It’s empty. Completely empty. The street lights flicker like dying stars and the neon glow from the bar signs that still hang over dark windows stain the road shades of green and purple and red. 

A loud thrashing sounds from behind him, the beast stepping out of the shadow is big–bigger than Booker–and baring its teeth in a snarl. The appearance is canine in nature, eyes glowing a bloody shade of red, stepping slowly but confidently towards him.

The first thing Booker does is grab the closest thing to him (a surprisingly lightweight easel) and hurl it towards the monster, but he begins running again before it makes impact. He breaks into the sprint, at one point looking back over his shoulder to watch the beast tangled in the easel, ducking behind one of the bars and squeezing his eyes shut. Clamping a hand over his mouth to help quiet the sound of his heavy breathing, he can take the moments to try and calm his racing heart and recover at least slightly.

It’s not his own heavy breathing that he hears from the shadows.

He’s barely gotten a chance to rest, but he _knows_ the monster is there. It’s smarter than him, faster than him, he knows this. _It shouldn’t be winnable._

Booker has had this dream before. Several times. It’s always similar, the ending, but it’s because he gives up. He lets the monster take him–sometimes at the chain link fence, sometimes in the street. Booker has never tried the easel before, but even that wasn’t enough.

There are two options to continue: _sit here, let it kill me_ or _run_. 

Surprisingly, he chooses to run. 

He throws himself into his highest gear and sprints back down the road, away from the neon signs and into the unknown part of this world. Again, the monster is on his heels, but Booker doesn’t stop his attempts to evade it. Even as he trips over himself, falling and skidding too far along the road. Even when he slowly pushes himself back up, the bloody scratches on his elbows and knees not healing, the crack in his rib, the rip up his thigh that’s broken open his flesh, he does nothing but turn against the monster and prepare a fighting stance. 

_What else is there to do?_

His knuckles are ripped open. They burn when he clenches a fist and prepares to throw a punch, but it does not make him back down. 

Booker lands a punch directly into the side of the monster’s head when he snaps awake.

The familiar sounds of Joe making breakfast are what he wakes up to. As he pushes himself up off of the desk, rubbing his face, he’s surprised to find a still-steaming cup of coffee next to him and a blanket wrapped around his shoulders.

Joe denies doing both of these things, but doesn’t give an alternative answer. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i will not lie i adore writing booker for reasons that are beyond me. absolutely, utterly, beyond me. bless the beta readers. symbiotic relationship. 
> 
> leave a comment if you enjoyed, that fun stuff!


	8. Dupont Circle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Nicky wakes up, he doesn’t immediately move. He can feel…fingers, in his hair, gently massaging his head, curling and twisting gently. Were he not so accustomed to the feeling of Joe’s fingers, he could’ve been fooled, but he isn’t stupid. For a brief moment he could hope, but he knows better than that. 
> 
> “You’re awake,” a feminine voice purrs from next to him.
> 
> Nicky’s heart stops dead in his chest. Hearing her voice is enough to make his body tighten every muscle he has while his mouth runs dry–and the smell. He never thought that her specific perfume would set him off, but he’s suddenly sick to his stomach and it’s taking an effort to keep his breathing steady. There’s a weight on his chest– _Jesus, Mary and Joseph, what in God’s name is wrong with me?_
> 
> “I was worried we had finally figured out how much trauma your bodies can take. I guess not.” Kozak comes into view, though she’s putting on gloves. “You really haven’t aged a day, have you?” 
> 
> –
> 
> Or, Nicky is Tired but Still Kicking

Nicky is tired. So very tired.

Now that he’s been moved, he’s not underground. If he pushes himself up slightly, he can see the double doors and the light coming in from the windows in the hallway. He only checks when there is not anyone around, and being left alone in this new room is a breath of fresh air, but it also means being alone with his thoughts. Once he can push away the thoughts revolving around the fact he’s slowly but surely _starving,_ it doesn’t get better. For as brave a face as he puts on, as tough and strong as he tries to seem, he’s _fucking terrified_. 

Knowing that Kozak will be here is making it worse. Knowing that she will be doing all of the things Curtis is doing to him and more is making it worse. Knowing it’s been now three days since he’s been moved isn’t helping. Knowing that he’s alone, with what he can only imagine is no hope to get out of here, is what makes it the worst of all. 

Quynh visited this morning. She said no word to him other than “ _prego”_ and took out a knife and slit his throat. 

When Nicky wakes up, he doesn’t immediately move. He can feel…fingers, in his hair, gently massaging his head, curling and twisting gently. Were he not so accustomed to the feeling of Joe’s fingers, he could’ve been fooled, but he isn’t stupid. For a brief moment he could hope, but he knows better than that. 

“You’re awake,” a feminine voice purrs from next to him.

Nicky’s heart stops dead in his chest. _Hearing_ her voice is enough to make his body tighten every muscle he has while his mouth runs dry–and the _smell._ He never thought that her specific perfume would set him off, but he’s suddenly sick to his stomach and it’s taking an effort to keep his breathing steady. There’s a weight on his chest– _Jesus, Mary and Joseph, what in_ God’s _name is wrong with me?_

“I was worried we had finally figured out how much trauma your bodies can take. I guess not.” Kozak comes into view, though she’s putting on gloves. “You really haven’t aged a day, have you? Save for the hair.” 

He stays silent, not sure he even has a voice to speak with anymore. He tests his wrists, surprised to find one just slightly looser than the other. Again. Odd. As subtly as he can, he starts wiggling his hand around to test the bond, just wanting something, _anything_ to get him away from this woman.

“Curtis has gotten further than I got the chance to,” she drawls, pulling over a cart. “But now? I’m told I have plenty of time before anyone comes close to finding you. Granted, I’m not just limited to seeking out biological advancements with you. I’ve been told I can do whatever I please, and if I can, try to get information out of you. Perhaps we can have some real fun now, yes?”

Nicky does not look at her. If he does, he can’t even begin to think what he will find himself doing.

“I’ll be right back, I believe I’m missing something…” Kozak mumbles to herself, vanishing quickly. A door clicks shut to his right.

He pulls _hard_ on the bond, pushing and pulling and yanking his wrist. The skin is rubbed raw when he begins to make progress, and when he finally gets his hand free, his wrist is slightly bloody and _definitely_ raw.

Nicky’s fingers rarely move this fast, and when they do, it’s under much different circumstances, but he’s trained himself well. He’s undoing the rest of his bonds as quickly as possible, slipping off the table. He doesn’t have shoes on, and the cold tile is a smack, but he also already feels woozy just standing up. It’s not horrendous, but– _oh,_ the gnawing pain from his stomach reminds him that he hasn’t eaten in…three days, now. More, but he’s trying to pretend like the brief chance he had with a granola bar could suffice as a meal (it doesn’t, which means it’s been closer to a week since his last meal). That will definitely change things. 

He takes a scalpel from the tray Kozak left, slowly creeping towards the door and pushing his way out. There’s…nobody there. That’s what feels the strangest to Nicky as he continues through the halls, left in scrub-pants that are a size too big and wielding a fucking scalpel. 

The halls are old, he can tell pretty quickly. The walls have been repainted time and time again, but the most recent coat was still at least ten years ago, if he had to guess. Though the gray tiles (with blue accents) are cold on his feet and _definitely_ have random sharp things scattered around, Nicky doesn’t think to linger as he pushes forward. 

The first person he runs into is definitely _not_ with Quynh or the CIA or whoever the fuck has him (at this point, he has the feeling it’s more than one organization who’s taken possession of him), as she is definitely just a small, blonde, college-aged girl who’s clutching a binder to her chest and carrying a JanSport backpack. Her eyes go wide when she sees Nicky, who undoubtedly looks like he’s straight out of a horror movie, and she backs away from him slowly.

“Wait! Wait, I need _help_ ,” he says, putting the scalpel to his side, holding out a hand to try and calm her down. “Please…please, I just want to go home, I need…how do I get out of here? Where am I?”

This poor girl looks horrified. She doesn’t speak, other than pointing to a label on the wall, but gestures for him to follow her. He does, not having any other choice. When he looks to the wall, there’s a flier hung up for an event with an address; he’s in Washington DC, or just outside of it, he gathers quickly. At least, out here there are more windows, but good God the light is bright. Maybe it’s midday. The girl takes him down a flight of stairs, and they’re almost down to floor one when he can hear the pounding of boots on the stairs above them. Without meaning to, he swears quietly in Italian, trying to hurry their way down and out.

He almost makes it to the double doors that lead out to green lawns and salvation when the doors behind him burst open and armed men come out from the stairwell.

Nicky isn’t sure what option he has other than to try and run for the doors. He pushes them open, getting down two steps before he’s confronted by another group of armed men. _Well, fuck_. He doesn’t think twice before he launches himself into the thick of them, sticking the scalpel into an eye and grabbing the soldier’s gun before he turns on them and shoots what he can. They aren’t all down, but it’s enough to grant Nicky a clear path out if he can run fast enough.

He doesn’t even get the chance to run. Nicky looks to the stairs once, his eyes observing the girl’s horrified expression. It’s the last thing he sees before there’s a bullet in his brain.

Nicky has come back around when they’re carrying him up the stairs, his hands and feet back in the zip ties. Looking out to the lawn, he can see a set of agents with the girl who helped him, and she’s still staring at Nicky. He hopes they don’t do anything bad to her, but his faith is low at this point. 

Fighting the whole way back gets him nowhere. They drop him on the floor at one point and take turns breaking his ribs open with the metal batons they’ve begun to carry around him, and the time he spends trying to recover fills up every moment until he’s back on the table, thoroughly strapped in this time. He tries to briefly wiggle and test it once they’re off of him, but to no avail. Kozak looks pissed, but this time she doesn’t say a word before she’s ripping his abdomen open. It’s larger than a scalpel, what sinks into him, and it rips with such a ferocity that Nicky’s shocked he doesn’t die on the spot. No, he can feel her digging around inside, prodding at his organs, before the brevity of death can claim him as he bleeds out onto the table. 

She’s out of his abdomen when he opens his eyes, though his body is still on fire from stitching itself back together. Kozak is still wearing the bloody gloves, though it looks as though there’s drying blood all the way up to her elbows. Whether it be from dripping or otherwise, Nicky doesn’t know, but he finds that he really would rather not know the answer.

“No Joe this time?” she inquires, her voice firmer than it had been before. “None of your other little friends felt the need to play?”

Nicky keeps his teeth clenched, his eyes trained on the ceiling. He finds that he’s slightly calmer now than he was when she woke him up, and he can just figure he was startled, and that’s why he had the reaction he did. _Right? ...Right? Do I have...trauma?_

_Is she…does she have a salad or something?_

She’s audibly crunching on something, and it takes a second for the smell of a vinaigrette dressing to smack him upside the head. Christ, he doesn’t know whether he wants it or wants to vomit. His stomach is turning and wrenching just at the thought, never mind the fact his head still feels like it’s being crushed slowly but surely. No, he would definitely vomit; he’s almost nauseous just thinking about food right now. 

Kozak continues, once she’s done crunching, “It’s rather unfortunate that I’m not allowed to touch Quynh. A real shame, it would make things so much easier, and undoubtedly alleviate some of your pain.” 

He says nothing. There’s nothing _to_ say.

“I’m going to finish the rest of my work for the night right now,” she says. The chair squeaks and slides as she gets up out of it. “It’s going to hurt quite a bit, but I need to extract bone marrow–"

“Tell me about the children.” Nicky’s voice is louder than he thought it would be, even if he’s a little hoarse. “The six children. Tell me about them.” 

There’s a long period of silence before the clicking of shoes wander over to stand next to the right side of Nicky’s head. Her fingers tap on the table, and though she’s staring down at him, Nicky does not make eye contact with her. 

“It took a few months to put together,” she says matter of factly. “Several, actually, just to create them. We started with ten, only six survived the entire pregnancy. Surrogates, volunteers who needed money and were willing to do whatever we needed and keep quiet about it. I was working in Belgium at the time, at a lab associated with Redthorn–they bailed me out of prison, but I could only stay free if I helped them with the project. I’m not a moron. 

“The six that survived were nothing spectacular. Two were slightly more than ordinary from the start, which I suppose isn’t surprising, considering those were the combination pair. Funny, they looked like twins. You could hardly tell them apart.” Kozak sighs, her fingers tapping the table in a quick pattern for a few brief moments before she continues speaking. “At four, they were killed for the first time. They came back. But…we realized they stopped aging after only a few months, and we killed them again. And again. And again.” 

“Children,” Nicky says, though his voice has shifted into being oddly quiet. “They were _children._ ”

“They stopped coming back after five deaths. Perhaps it’s for the best that they only had half-immortal lives.” 

Nicky’s heart is throbbing in his throat. Perhaps it’s because he doesn’t need to ask, he _knows_ whose children they were. Even though he knew none of them, the pain in his heart is overwhelming. Yet, he keeps his expression blank and chews on the inside of his left cheek. 

“What do you mean, combination pair?” he finally asks, even though he knows deep down he doesn’t want to know the answer.

Kozak pulls away from him, going to shuffle around in one of the desk drawers. “Four were yours. Four were Joseph’s. Two were a combination.” 

“You’re going to try and recreate it, aren’t you?” Nicky has to swallow to keep his voice from getting thick. “Try to create half-immortal children again.” 

“I was _hoping_ they’d gotten Joseph and not you. Out of the four that died before testing, three were exclusively yours. I’m going to be very, very careful if I try it again,” Kozak explains quietly. “Though, I never got the chance to try with Booker. Curtis never requested any samples while Bouchard was working, and the fucker was gone before I could even see him.” 

Nicky falls silent. He’s learned everything he wanted to know about, though it doesn’t make him feel any better. Arguably, he feels ten times worse, because now on top of all of his physical aching, he’s got a weight on his conscience as of now. When Kozak returns to his side, he’s still thinking it all over, though he’s snapped away from his thoughts when he feels her fingers graze a line over his chest, down the sternum, and another line over his belly.

“You’re scarred,” she remarks. “Faintly, but it’s still there. Perhaps healing as we speak.” 

_What?_

He can’t look, not when she’s so close, and he also can’t twist his body in the position he would need to easily see what she was talking about. It goes into a file in the mind-cabinet labeled _Things to Worry About_ and gets put very close to the front. 

Kozak shoots his thigh.

It’s notably a much larger bullet than he was expecting, but what really drags his attention away is the fact that he can feel his femur snapping upon impact, though the _sound_ is almost just as bad. He wheezes at first, biting down a shout of pain, his body simultaneously constricting and shuddering at the same time. Noise still undoubtedly escapes his vocal chords, and he is aware that his body is shaking even if it feels as though he is outside of his own body. His leg alone is on fire, the feeling of ripping coming shortly as a knife enters through the bullet hole and slices his leg open.

_Pass out. Please. Please, please. Die, pass out, anything, please._

Nicky’s thoughts echo around in his head, but they don’t do anything fast enough. How to rationalize the _burning,_ the _sawing,_ the further snapping, he doesn’t know. His brain doesn’t even know. He’s broken legs before–hell, he’s jumped out of very high buildings before–but even after a thousand years of life and death, his brain can’t compute something like this. 

_Breathe. Just...breathe._

When Kozak finally pulls away, holding a small jar of what Nicky hates to assume is his own bone marrow, at least the tearing and prodding stops. 

“You’ll bleed out soon,” she says simply. “Or just enter a state of shock that will help you heal.”

Nicky can’t answer her. He shuts his eyes and tries to focus on whatever comes to mind first. He’s digging through memories, trying to recall something good– _Italy, 2019._ He and Joe spent a few months in a villa, living as locals. It was while they were taking a year long break, and there were far too many nights of wine and Joe’s baking and _great_ sex. Nicky got a small job in town to help keep up appearances while Joe got to focus on his art. 

It was short lived, but it was good. 

His leg has started healing. It snaps itself back together with far too many jolts, his flesh clawing its way back together and the muscles and ligaments reforming as they had existed before. 

Nicky finally relaxes once his leg is fully healed. His shoulders slump back, the deep breaths in and out that he’s been taking grow smaller. His body is telling him that he’s exhausted from having to piece himself back into one piece (and also from a lack of real nutrients to help fuel the whole _pulling flesh back together_ thing), that he should be resting, but as he’s laying on the bloody table, he can barely even think about falling asleep. 

He’s grateful for the escort into a solitary room (though it’s more of a prison cell than a room), where he’s given a bit more freedom of motion, though not much. One of the first things he does is stretch out to the best of his ability, seeing as he’s still cuffed. Then, Nicky finds himself retreating to the makeshift bed in the corner and curling up on his side, solely out of habit. It’s not hard to fall asleep once he’s assuredly alone in this room.

Days pass. 

There’s a tiny window at the top of the room that lets in natural light. He doesn’t mark the days on the walls, but he does count them at first. He stops after four, but he suddenly finds that he’s not hungry anymore after three.

Quynh visits him once. She brings her own chair into the room and sits in the corner, watching him for a long time before she moves the chair so its back is to the shitty little sink. _Sit,_ she tells him. He does, reluctantly, and she gives him another shave. Nicky asks if she had a concept of time when she was drowning; she tells him no. Her hands move with an expert grace, though she stalls it longer than she needs. She could be done with it in a minute or two if she wanted, yet she’s taking her time. Quynh asks what he misses most; he tells her _Yusuf_. She is not surprised.

“ _They’re going to torture you tomorrow_ ,” she warns him, her chosen language of the day being an old form of Arabic. “ _Kozak wants Booker or Yusuf, there’s something she isn’t ready to trust about you._ ”

“ _I know. She…said a few things, when I asked about the six children._ ”

Quynh stops, the blade of the razor just under his jaw. “ _You asked._ ”

“ _Of course._ ”

“ _Why?"_

“ _I wanted to know._ ”

She shakes her head before she speaks again. “ _Do you regret asking?"_

“ _Yes._ ”

“ _I’m sorry, Nicolò,_ ” she tells him, her eyes meeting his briefly. “ _It’s not a knowledge anyone should have to bear–let alone someone directly affected by it._ ”

Nicky sighs quietly. “ _I’ve had a few days to mull it over. It isn’t sitting any better._ ”

Her eyes flick back down to his jaw, though she’s obviously biting the inside of her bottom lip. “ _It isn’t sitting well with me either,_ ” she admits. Nicky’s eyebrows raise, and she continues. “ _I don’t know what changed, before you ask._ ”

“ _It’s okay that you don’t know._ ”

“ _I’m sorry. For all of this._ ” Quynh takes a gentle hold of his face and turns him to ensure he looks at her, though it could easily be masked as beginning to work on the other side of his face. “ _I was wrong._ ”

“ _So were we._ ” Nicky takes a moment to swallow, training his eyes on the wall behind Quynh. “ _None of us have made great choices in recent times._ ”

She nods after a moment. “ _It seems as though that’s true._ ” 

“ _…where does that put us, then?"_

" _I_ _’m not too sure yet,_ ” she admits. “ _Somewhere, I imagine. Here? There?_ _Someplace in the middle? I know I was stupid to think that this was the way to show I was upset with you, get back at you, but that doesn’t mean I don’t still want something._ ”

Nicky can take that as an answer. “ _Let me know when you are sure,_ ” he tells her. 

“ _We can’t get you out of here, not alone._ ” 

Nicky feels his heart turn to lead, and he looks up to Quynh once more, analyzing her features and expressions. He can’t tell if she’s being genuine or not, which is a major problem, considering that he so desperately wants to believe that she’s on his side. Yet…she also just told him that Kozak wants Joe and Booker. As desperate as he is to escape, Nicky isn’t stupid. 

“ _You’re right,_ ” he tells her.

“ _I could try to contact the others–"_

“ _I don’t know where they are. And if I did? I wouldn’t tell you. Not here._ ” He tacks on the bit at the end in case she really is being genuine, just to let her know that it’s more of a safety thing than a personal thing. “ _I’m sorry, Quynh, but I just…can’t risk them being caught._ ”

She nods. Her expression does not harden, her hands do not slip and “accidentally” cut him while she shaves. Instead, she nods. “ _Alright,_ ” she says. “ _I promise we’ll fix this._ ”

“ _I don’t expect us to,_ ” Nicky admits. It feels awful coming out of his mouth, but when he thinks back on his statement, he doesn’t disagree. The ugly truth is that Nicky genuinely finds himself believing that they won’t be able to fix this, and if they do, it’ll be years. _Years._ He can hope that Joe is okay, wherever they are now. That Nile is keeping her cool, that Andy hasn’t fallen off a curb and cut herself open–Nicky was the combat medic of them as it was. Hell, he even finds himself hoping that Booker finds some sort of happiness before they see each other next. 

When he exhales, his chest feels concave, and his fingers curl around his knuckles. 

“ _I do,_ ” she tells him.

He doesn’t have the heart to tell her that he thinks she’ll be in a cell too before the end of the year. Again. She leaves once she’s cut his hair as well, though she admits to not doing a great job. Nicky doesn’t sleep that night, and true to Quynh’s word, the next morning they begin to torture him under guise of interrogation.

They don’t interrogate him. Asking one question once every now and then doesn’t equate to interrogation. 

The problem is that they’ve begun to discover his body’s limits–they are learning what kind of trauma will temporarily kill him, and undoubtedly their fun, compared to what he can live and ache through. They still kill him, none of the deaths he meets pleasant; he’s strangled, his skull broken open, drowned several times, spine snapped and crushed, shot and stabbed and his jaw is ripped off of its hinges to stick a gun down his throat. Nicky doesn’t ask how many hours they’re at this. He _knows_ they started when the sun was young in the day, and they don’t finish until it’s well past twilight and into the night.

He feels broken when he’s thrown back into the cell, but he’s grateful for the end to it. 

His dreams are cruel in that they are all too much like real life. They _feel_ real when he’s dreaming them, too, but he always wakes up to find himself alone on the floor, clutching at his wrist as though Joe’s hand would still be there. It never is.

Tonight’s dreams are exceptionally bad. Joe is sitting on the floor in the morning light, up early for some reason while Nicky lays on his stomach in bed, watching him. The sheets are still tangled around Nicky’s body, but it’s almost cold enough to add another blanket, especially without Joe’s body heat. Rolling over in bed to lay on his back, he stares at the soft blue walls and the white ceiling. The smell of the sea hits him, so strong and vivid that Nicky can easily convince himself that he’s _there_ , while the feeling of Joe’s fingers lacing themselves in Nicky’s grounds him in the moment. 

A physical ache blooms in his chest at the feeling. 

He wants nothing more than to be back here at a beachside townhome in the Mediterranian, to have Joe’s fingers twisting in his and the promise of something sweet for breakfast followed by a trip out into the sun (or, alternatively, perhaps a trip straight back to bed while getting his neck kissed and sucked and hands desperately removing what little clothing he’d attempted to put on for the day). The sweetness fills Nicky with a longing homesickness that he can barely dispute, and it hurts to consider that this _isn’t_ where he currently is, what he’s currently doing.

Nicky has been away from Joe for longer than this. However long _this_ has been. They’ve spent _years_ apart at times, but always come right back to each other and made up for the lost time… _Why am I justifying this to myself?_ Nicky finds himself thinking when Joe tugs him out of bed and onto the floor, straight into his lap. His warmth is better than any blanket could have given him. _Do I need to justify the simple fact that I miss my husband? That these few weeks away have managed to feel like a hundred years? ...no, no I don’t need to justify it._

Though perhaps he just had. 

Joe’s mouth on his feels the most real, and perhaps that is what hurts the most. Nicky’s fingers can tangle in the curls, pulling him closer while Joe’s hands clutch Nicky’s body close. All too close. He burrows his face into the crook of Joe’s neck, in some attempt to hide from everything going on outside of this brief snippet of a memory. He realizes all too quickly that he’s teared up, though perhaps it’s closer to crying than he’d usually let on to; he doesn’t need to attempt a justification for it, he _knows_ it’s from holding everything inside, and he _knows_ it means he needs to let go of the stoicism just briefly–even if he knows he never will while still locked up. Nicky can accept in that single moment that he is so very afraid.

“ _Tesoro mio_ ,” Joe muses, tracing patterns into the small of Nicky’s back. “ _Ti amo._ ” 

Nicky holds onto him tighter, squeezing his eyes shut. His grip is undoubtedly tight enough to hurt, but if it does, Joe says nothing about it. Clinging to what little of his sanity may be left, he adjusts his position to be more in Joe’s arms. _Hell, at least make it worthwhile._ There’s nothing but silence between them once Nicky has echoed _ti amo_ softly, though he can almost convince himself he hears the waves crashing gently on the shore. No words exist for a long while, they merely sit in each other’s embrace, and it’s incredibly self-serving.

“I will always find you,” Joe continues after long minutes of quiet. “Not even death can keep me from you, Nicolò, I will always come back to you.” 

Nicky wakes up on his back, in the cell. He’s cold, and he’s alone. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nothing comes easy in this household, but we get to catch up with nicky! it's been over a week huh. 
> 
> also, happy (late) lesbian day!
> 
> don't forget to leave comments if you enjoyed, all that fun stuff. stay classy.


	9. Wall St

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Oh, that’s horseshit. I’ve heard you sing.” 
> 
> Nile laughs. “Yeah, but I can’t dance. And none of you fuckers have seen me try, either.” 
> 
> “That’s highly disappointing,” Booker muses. “What do you mean, you can’t dance?”
> 
> “I mean I did gymnastics as a kid and that’s the extent of my knowledge on how to move my body.” Nile chuckles, shaking her head. “Sorry I can’t be you.” 
> 
> “I’ll teach you, eventually. If you like.” 
> 
> She hesitates, glancing up at him with her eyebrows furrowing together. “Eventually sounds like a half-baked promise.” 
> 
> “What, would you rather now?”
> 
> “As if you would,” she says with a quiet scoff. 
> 
> —
> 
> Or, Nile Goes to Meet a Contact with Joe, and Learns with Firsthand Experience that Booker Can Dance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for mentions of suicide—heads up, it's a pretty brief mention, but it is still there.

Nile comes out of the room she’s sharing with Andy, yawning for a moment before she’s stopping in her tracks and staring into the kitchen. She could hear music, she thought Joe had turned something on, but _no_. Booker’s standing in front of the stove with a spatula and swaying and _humming_ to the fucking Arctic Monkeys. The Arctic Monkeys! Nile likes them, the fact that one of her centuries-old companions does as well is rather unsettling news she wishes she’d known about earlier. Though, upon second thought, she’s not surprised that Booker is a fan of _Do I Wanna Know?_

“What do you like with your crepes?” Booker asks, not even turning. 

Internally, Nile is horrified at the prospect of Booker cooking, but she doesn’t have to say anything. Andy’s stumbled out behind her, still standing in the doorway and still sounding half asleep.

“Book, you’re…cooking?”

“Same question applies to you, Andy.” 

Nile can’t help but shake her head. “I don’t think I’ve ever had crepes before…” she admits.

Booker huffs. “I’ll give you what Nicky likes, then.”

“Which is?”

“Whipped cream, strawberries, sugar. Honey if he’s feeling spicy.” Booker _flips_ the damn thing, and Nile looks to Andy to see if she’s as horrified as Nile is.

Well, if she is, she’s hiding it well. The pair go to sit at the kitchen bar, watching Booker put together a plate for Nile and look at Andy before constructing the same thing, but with bananas as well. Nile is glad when he’s busying himself with the stove some more for when she takes a cautious bite, but what horrifies her more is that it’s _phenomenal_. She glances at Andy with wide eyes, who’s eating her own with a clearly surprised expression, but not to the extent of Nile, that’s for sure.

“This is…this is really good,” Nile finally says, stammering it out even though her words are completely genuine. 

Booker smiles over to her and shrugs. “I’m classically trained, you know.” 

Andy audibly chokes, smacking her chest a couple times. Nile isn’t processing what he just said, whether it’s the fact that his mixtape now also includes fucking _Gorillaz_ ( _On Melancholy Hill_ at that) is maybe part of it, but Andy manages to clear her throat to reply.

“Say that again?”

“One of the times we were lingering in France for awhile, just living for a bit, I was going to culinary school at night,” Booker says with a wry grin. “Why not, I figured.”

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” Nile says with a groan, her face going in her hands. “So you mean you’re _proficient_ in the whole…cooking thing? Very much so?”

“Did someone say my name?” Joe pokes his head out of his door, clearly not awake yet. “What smells good?”

“Booker can cook!” Nile adds, exasperated. 

Joe squints for a moment, though comes out and shakes his head. “No way–no _offense_ , but no way.” 

He’s handed a plate of crepes, what looks to definitely have a different flavor profile than what Nile and Andy got, clearly leaning savory instead of sweet, but Joe doesn’t exactly seem to care as he takes a bite of it. There’s some hesitation–he checks the thickness of the crepe, has another bite, and looks to the stove before shaking his head. 

“Booker can cook.” 

The son of a bitch is laughing quietly, shaking his head. They eat in silence, save for the music Booker has going (which, Nile is even more horrified once she recognizes Caravan Palace–where the _fuck_ had this been when she was trying to get to know him?) and the quiet, satisfied chewing. Once he’s sat down, Booker takes a fluid motion that looks all too much like crossing himself once before and once after he mumbles something quietly in French. It’s not the first time she sees it, but it definitely sticks out this morning for reasons Nile can’t quite explain. Once Nile is done, she’s messing with a glass of water and watching Booker play with the remains of his crepe and she asks it.

“Is there anything else you can do that’s shocking?” Nile asks, her eyebrows furrowing together.

“I can play several instruments _and_ I’m very good at swing dancing,” he states, very matter-of-factly. “Amongst other things, probably–no, Nile, you’ve _seen_ me dance.” 

“I have no–! Oh, _the park_.” 

“Yes, the park.” Booker grins, shaking his head. “Still, I imagine there are quite a few other things I will be keeping to myself for quite some time.”

Andy chuckles and shakes her head, but Booker gives her one of his typical half-smiles and shrugs. He’s doing the dishes before Nile knows it, and she’s honestly still somewhat shocked at how _little_ she may know about Booker. Granted, she doesn’t know a lot about these people, simply because there’s been too much to cover in the few years they’ve had together, but she likes to think she at least _somewhat_ knows Joe and Nicky, Andy partially on good days. 

“You’re telling Nicky that you know how to cook,” Andy says, her eyes stern but a grin still wrapped across her features. “The poor soul’s been under the impression all of us are helpless otherwise.” 

“We still are,” Booker points out. “I didn’t say you’d _like_ everything I can make, and I have to be in the mood. You know how it is.” 

They fall quiet afterwards, the silence hanging over them like a lead balloon. _Nicky._ The only reason they haven’t left the states yet. Nile never realized just how intensely he glued them together until he wasn’t there to do it. Even now she’s biting her lip, contemplating the loss of a friend. _Temporary loss_ , she reminds herself. They’re going to find him again. 

Nile hopes, at least. 

The last thing she wants to think about is Nicky being subjected to torture for any longer than he has to be, and even then, this could’ve all been avoided had they not split up. Yet, it’s already been a week since he was first taken. More than that, closer to ten days maybe. 

Nile can hardly stand to think about it. She’s working almost nonstop to try and figure out something, hell, anything to find Nicky. There’s nothing, though. Even with Booker stalking bank accounts and scouring for as much information as he can find on that front, there’s still next to nothing. Nile is playing with her fork when _Us and Them_ (Pink Floyd, of course) begins to play. Booker stands, taking the finished plates and setting to the dishes. As soon as they’d all come out of their rooms, they disappear back into them–Joe leaves the door open but doesn’t come back out, and Andy only returns once she’s dressed.

In typical Andy fashion, she gives no explanation other than a quick _be back later_ and vanishes out into the city. Nile is tempted to go with her, reminding her that two is better than one when it comes to this situation, but she can’t bring herself to say the words. Andy clearly wants to be alone, and Nile isn’t going to impede that. As much as she wants to, as much as it hurts her heart to stay here, she will. 

Booker offers Nile the tablet when he settles in to work, and she takes it quickly to set to work herself. The TV gets turned on, a low volume to keep the room from being completely silent. It’s close to three in the afternoon when Booker stops typing notably, but his voice snaps Nile out of her trance less than five minutes after that.

“Shit,” he mumbles. When Nile looks up, she sees his eyes are trained on the TV set. “That’s awful–a congressman’s daughter killed herself.” 

Nile glances to the TV. It’s a quick headline, saying that a service is going to be held for the girl tonight. She was a student at Georgetown, in their medical school, who shot herself with a gun her father owned. A quick search on her phone tells Nile there was no note, and her friends were shocked. 

“That is awful,” Nile agrees quietly. “I can’t imagine…” 

“Her father denied owning that kind of gun.” Joe’s voice is a surprise to Nile, and she whips around to see him leaning on the dining table. “Copley called about it, he said it looked more like a hit squad than a suicide.” 

“It’s a little insensitive, don’t you think?” Nile asks. She turns back to the TV, but they’ve begun to report on something different now. “A girl still killed herself.” 

Joe sighs, but continues, “Just relaying what Copley said–he’s mentioned that Redthorn reached out and contacted him about coming back to America, based on how he was slightly involved with Merrick. Theoretically, he thinks they could bring him to Nicky and ask him to find the rest of us.” 

“That’s good, no?” Booker stops typing again, audibly turning in his chair before Nile sees it. “If Copley can get in for us, find out what’s going on…” 

“It could be good, yes. But it could be two months before he gets the address and flies out,” Joe states. “Are we really comfortable with letting Nicky suffer for _two months_?”

Booker speaks before Nile can even open her mouth. “Of course not,” he says, “but if it takes two months to get any sort of lead outside of Copley, it’s a fall-back plan.” 

Nile watches him deeply inhale, hold the breath for a few moments, and then exhale slowly and nod. There’s words on the tip of his tongue, but he keeps his mouth shut for now. The amount of self control that Nile has seen from Joe in the past few days alone could rival even the most patient man she’d ever encountered, even with the brief snap in the lab, though it leaves her wondering how long he’ll be able to keep this up for. 

“I’m going out today,” Joe finally says. “I’ve got a contact to meet with. Do either of you have an interest in coming with me?”

“I’ll go,” Nile offers all too quickly. Sit here in silence or actually maybe go do something useful? The answer is all too obvious to Nile. 

Joe merely nods. “We’re meeting him for lunch, so we need to get going, then.”

She stands, glancing back to Booker for a brief moment. They make eye contact, but Nile doesn’t hold it long enough to attempt an analysis of his expression. Instead, Nile is walking towards the room she shares with Andy, lingering in the doorway.

“I assume my pajamas are not proper dress code?”

Joe chuckles. “I’ll be in a three-piece if it helps.” 

She swallows, looking towards the bag that’s strewn open and across half of the bedroom floor. Right. Formal. 

—

Nile feels like an imposter. Her dress is too tight, it’s the wrong color, she stands out too much in this crowd…and she’s next to Joe, who she hasn’t seen dress like this before. He’s also ridiculously dressed up, a patterned three-piece suit (not a blinding pattern, but a sort of grey-brown plaid) that also features a tie that matches his pocket square. By how put-together he looks now, it’s pretty clear to Nile who keeps Nicky from dressing atrociously.

“Where’d you get the watch?” Nile asks, pulling at her own green dress. It’s a sleeveless turtleneck that barely goes to her knees, but it was the only not-wrinkled thing she could pull off. 

“It was an anniversary gift,” Joe answers, his shoulders rolling back as he glances at it. It’s a nice gold, seemingly a nice brand too. “Nicky picked it up when we were in France fourteen years ago.” 

Once she’s gauged that he doesn’t seem upset talking about it, she pushes a little more. Somewhat out of curiosity, but also hearing about their exploits makes her smile sometimes. “How’d he give it to you?”

Joe regards her with a smirk and a quiet chuckle. “That’s usually a dangerous question, but for once the answer isn’t…oh, damn. How do you say it in English?” He’s staring at the floor, rubbing his thumb and tapping his foot on the ground as he mumbles quietly in Arabic, then Nicky’s version of Italian, followed by what she _thinks_ is German before the answer comes. “Inherently sexual, that’s not the exact word, but it’ll do.” 

“It’s alright, I get your drift.” Nile laughs quietly, shaking her head. It’s funny, she’s never noticed that he and Nicky do the same thing when they can’t remember the English word. 

“We were traveling through France, heading down to Switzerland to meet with Andy and Booker. It was outside of Paris, since we didn’t have time to go into the city itself. I was sketching him, we had wine. It was a good night.” Joe smiles, seemingly at the memory. 

It makes Nile smile, too. 

Joe is on his feet before she can reply, clearly seeing someone she didn’t. Standing up en suit, she straightens out her back and takes in the man approaching them. He’s a tall, fairly attractive black man upon first impression, dressed very similarly to Joe, and carrying himself with a quick pace. He has dark hair that’s been cropped short, seemingly recently clean shaven with a defined jaw. Maybe he’s in his thirties? Mid-thirties, if she had to guess. There’s a bag slung over his shoulder, one that is a little too thick for Nile’s comfort, and she’s shifting her weight from foot to foot while she regrets having to carry her gun in her purse. 

“Joseph,” the man says in greeting when he comes over. “It’s been a few years.” 

“Just a few. Nile, this is Patrick, who I was telling you about.” 

Nile smiles, shaking his hand firmly when it’s offered to her. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she tells him. “I’m Nile Freeman.” 

“Patrick Lee.” He offers a warm smile in reply. “We’re going to lunch, if you weren’t told. I hope you’re hungry.” 

“Famished.” Only a small lie, she wasn’t the most hungry, admittedly. 

“It’s on me–no, Joe, you’re not allowed to pay. You told me last time I could get the bill next time–“

“I didn’t think it would actually happen, though!” 

Patrick laughs, an easy sound that comes from his chest. It’s pleasant, almost infectious. “Of course you didn’t, but here we are. Where’s Nicky? I was hoping to catch up with him too when I got your call.” 

Joe’s smile falters, and Patrick catches on all too quickly.

“Oh. Oh, that’s why we’re here, isn’t it? Why you want his file?” Patrick’s entire demeanor has changed, going almost instantly from a warm bubble of Spring to a serious, more rigid posture. “Let’s get to the restaurant. It’s not far, I promise.” 

“I appreciate you helping us out,” Nile says. Admittedly, she doesn’t know the _extent_ of what Patrick knows, but she hopes it’s at least enough that he understands that Nile is very much a part of the team now. “It means a lot that you’d take time out of your day on such short notice.” 

“Of course–anything. I owe this man my life, an hour or two for lunch is the least I can do,” Patrick assures her. His free hand goes in his pocket while they walk, but he still carries himself as any city-dweller would. It’s almost impressive.

Admittedly, she’s _not_ checking him out in terms of trying to judge whether or not she finds his body attractive–that needs to get put off the table right now, though he is lean and seems to be built like a runner (or, maybe a rower? Maybe he does both). No, instead what she’s doing is trying to scope out common places for pistols, seeing if he’s carrying any sort of service weapon. While at first it doesn’t seem as though he is, the last place she glances to would prove her wrong. On his calf, she can make out _faintly_ the shape of a holster. Good to know.

The restaurant is only a few blocks away, and they’re seated shortly. Nile’s chair is uncomfortable, but at least the restaurant seems nice. She gets poured water from a bottle that’s left on the table, which is somewhat of a surprise to begin with and definitely not a luxury she’s used to. If she’s being honest, she’s not paying attention at all to the polite conversation that’s following. They hardly talk at all about business, save a few words here and there that are mostly to ensure that they are going to get what they came for. 

“In due time” Patrick always says in that husky tone, his voice melodic at all other times.

Nile hates those words, more than she should. 

Lunch comes and goes. Nile keeps it light, finding herself less hungry than anticipated. Patrick chats mindlessly about things that feel terribly mundane. Or, perhaps, perfectly. What she wouldn’t give to be in a house somewhere with her weird found family, just trying to live normal lives between jobs. When Andy takes up working at a museum and Joe teaches art to kids. When Booker spends all his days in libraries grading term papers and Nicky is digging out one of his PhDs and brushing up on pediatrics. Nile bounced around, but took some time waitressing. It was familiar, and she could work on her art on the side. They had been in Ireland, then, laying low in Dublin. Nile loved it, and if she’s being honest, she wants nothing more than to go through that again. Except…maybe lingering for a bit longer.

Joe seems to have noticed that she’s not following the conversation, even if Patrick hasn’t. Nile does her best to pick up the last few words before Patrick excuses himself, but no luck can be had. She sips at her wine, not bothering to even pretend she is going to finish her meal.

“What do you think of him?” Joe asks. They’re both watching Patrick walk off to the restroom, and Joe waits until he’s out of sight to begin speaking. 

Nile shakes her head. “He’s…alright, I suppose. I don’t know, he’s attractive, I guess, but…maybe not my type? I really haven’t been paying attention, I’m sorry, he hasn’t been talking about anything important.”

“I was asking more so about whether or not you think we can trust him, but good to know.” Joe chuckles quietly, though it sounds oddly hollow. “Not your type, hm?”

She shrugs. “Oh– _oh!_ I mean, I think we can trust him, though I don’t know what choice we have. And, on that note…I don’t know, I just don’t feel the pull that’s telling me _that’s a good one, you should flirt with that one_ , you know?”

“When is the last time you had that pull?”

“I mean, there was this woman in the Marines, but–“ Nile stops herself, finding herself staring at the table. _Is that true?_ “I think she was the last one.” 

The eyebrow raise Joe gives her tells her that he sees straight through her words. But, Joe is too goddamn nice to do anything about it. “If you say so,” he tells her.

“I promise,” she assures him. 

Joe says, though quiet, “don’t make promises you can’t keep.” 

There was an underlying layer to the statement that definitely was _not_ aimed at her, but even though her expression softens and she opens her mouth to ask about it, Patrick is approaching them once more.

“I don’t have much,” Patrick says simply at first. “But I do have a small amount.”

“Whatever you can give us, we’ll take,” Joe assures him. 

“Miss Freeman, if you’d please nudge your purse over to me under the table.”

Nile doesn’t know whether she’s more surprised by being called Miss Freeman or that he’s asking for her purse in such a way. Still, she pushes it over gently to him with her foot. 

“What I could gather is in paper, but I can’t promise it’ll get you anywhere, only because I could be killed for even having this. It’s a highly secretive office of the company, the one you’re dealing with, and people like me don’t get easy access to what they’re doing.”

Joe nods. “You’ll catch hell for this.”

“Yeah, potentially.” Patrick offers a small smile though, dazzling as it is. “But maybe I won’t.” 

Nile puts on a small smile when she feels her purse being nudged back over to her. 

“Any help you’ve given is appreciated,” Nile muses. “Really. And if you come across anything more...”

“I’ll give you a call,” Patrick finishes. 

“Thank you,” Nile says, the smile pulling at her lips again. “I assume you have Joe’s number to contact, then.”

“Perhaps I could get yours as well? Just in case something were to happen.”

It’s smooth, Nile knows it, and she looks at Joe briefly while she’s speaking. As if she’s asking whether or not it’s safe to take his number. 

“Sure, yeah,” she says slowly, upon Joe giving the smallest shrug. 

She writes it on a loose napkin, sliding it over to him. 

“Whenever you find anything new,” she says quietly. 

“Maybe before I find anything new, too.”

Nile smiles again, though she is hesitant to reply. “Maybe.” 

When she actually takes a moment to think about it, though, she does not see herself going out with this guy more than once (maybe twice) out of politeness and a desire to keep the relationship in which she could potentially get information from him. Admittedly, she’s still asking herself if there _is_ a tug she’s feeling, and her mind can’t decide on a proper answer. It’s driving her wild, admittedly, not knowing her own thoughts.

Patrick gets the check. Joe doesn’t stop him.

They decide to walk Patrick back to his place of work (which, he assures them, is unfortunately _not_ CIA Manhattan), though Nile’s feet hurt from the stupid heels she put on. If only she’d had the foresight to put sneakers in her purse, or at least flats. As Joe and Nile stand outside the skyscraper, watching Patrick enter and wave them goodbye, she can only sigh and feel her purse once more. It’s heavier than it was before, and though she tries to casually feel it, whatever he put inside is flat. 

“Can we get coffee before we go back?” Nile finds herself asking. “Maybe even look over this shit in a shop?”

“Yeah, of course.” Joe nods along to his own words, his eyebrows scrunching together. “We just need to be careful about who can see.” 

_Fair points._ Nile can lead them to the closest Starbucks–she’d say she has a sixth sense for it, but really they’re just on every corner–placing an order for the pair of them while Joe snags the first table available. She waits for the drinks (and her cake pop) before she goes to sit with him, not wanting to get up again once she sits down. At least it’s some well-needed rest for her feet and ankles. Good _God,_ how do women do it? She can’t wrap her head around wearing these shoes for an extended period of time, it’s simply unfathomable. Nile is sitting on the same side of the table as Joe, to make the reading easier.

Joe is sipping at an iced coffee when Nile pulls out the file, the one that reads boldly _CLASSIFIED – REDTHORN_ at the very top. 

She flicks it open, blinking down at the sight of _pages and pages_ of what appears to be reports. A few images are tucked into the front as well, though Joe gently touches those and pulls them into view. 

Nile suddenly doesn’t want to eat the cake pop anymore. 

The images alone (there are three) span the same room, labeled as different days. Two have _The Bronx LAB_ on the bottom in sharpie, the dates one after the other with the pair of those. The pair of pictures look more like they were taken in a morgue than a lab, and seeing Nicky ripped open like he’s being dissected does not sit well, let alone the sight of the man taking a hammer to his ribcage. The third is labeled with the date only, and while the room looks similar, it’s clear that he’s been moved, but this time the image is of a woman hunched over a brutally broken femur. Nile gets a sinking suspicion she knows who the woman is even if she can’t see her face. 

When she glances to Joe, she finds she has to look away quickly to keep from getting emotional. He’s managed to stay some level of stoic, more than likely because they’re in public, but there’s so much sight into the very ripping apart of his soul in his eyes alone. They appear somewhat wet, though paired with the utter silence between them seems to further drive a stake through Nile’s heart. 

“We’re gonna get him back,” she says quietly, surprised to find that her own voice is thick. “We _have_ to get him back.” 

Joe’s fingers tap on the table, his heel tapping into the floor as well. Nile can’t keep looking at him and observing more of his body language–the way his shoulders are lingering next to his chin, how all of the muscles in his arms are visibly tense from underneath the suit, let alone his fucking facial expressions–or she’s going to break down right there in a Starbucks. The tapping is his way of replying, Nile discovers quickly, because he’s clearly not going to try and speak yet. 

She flips the images upside down, beginning to flick over the first papers in the stack. Some few key words are blacked out, but for the most part, it’s readable, and she can at least _begin_ to understand what’s going on. 

Regrettably, she soon discovers, she knows _exactly_ what’s going on. The excruciatingly graphic detail (while still remaining perfectly professional and _not_ sounding like a wannabe crime author) does not do her any favors, and she’s shutting the file and sticking it back in her purse before she gets through four full pages. 

“How much did you read?” Nile asks.

“Too much. Not enough.” Joe’s voice is a scary sort of quiet, even if she can still hear the emotions bubbling underneath. “They black out the addresses of the locations.” 

“I know.” 

They sit in silence, the buzzing of the shop around them filling the temporary void. 

“It gets worse, doesn’t it?” Nile mumbles.

“More than likely,” he tells her. “More than likely, they’ve forgotten that they’re there for science. More than likely, it’s turned into sadism.” 

She shakes her head. “I’m going to kill them,” she says under her breath.

“Not if I do it first,” Joe promises, a dangerous edge to his voice that Nile has heard maybe _one_ other time from him. He stands up with that, pushing in his chair and picking up his drink.

That’s the cue to leave. Right.

Nile is up with her own drink and leading the way out, though once they’re on the street, Joe is guiding them back to the car. It’s a busy street, cars are speeding along the road and Nile can feel small in her place in the world for a brief moment. She stands at her door, waiting for it to get unlocked, and watches the breakneck speeds that the cars are racing down the avenue. It’s a big street, too, and with large sidewalks to accompany it, Nile feels like a grain of sand on the beach in contrast to the city. In some ways, it’s probably not an entirely inaccurate way of looking at things.

The drive back is nearly silent. Nile changes the CD out again, putting in something new and staring out the window at the buildings and people flying past them. It’s difficult, she’s finding, to think of anything _other_ than the file sitting like a ball of lead in her purse. 

Nile pours over the files with Joe for the rest of the day, reading what she can stomach in little increments. Still no word on where Nicky is being housed, but they _do_ know a good chunk of what they’re doing to him. The report makes a note to mention the lack of a large reaction from Nicky when it comes to anything they do. Nile can’t wrap her head around _how_ with what levels of torture she’s reading about. Andy designates Joe to go outside with her, under the guise of _going for a walk to get dinner_. Nile knows it's more than that, and while she wants to know what they're saying, she can't bring herself to even consider following them to listen.

They come back with takeout, and they all eat in their own separate corners of the apartment. Nile hardly eats any of it, and finds herself taking herself to the balcony to clear her head in the fresh air. She rubs her face, wishing she’d brought a drink out with her but not wanting to bother going back inside when she realizes she needs _something_. Taking out her phone, she flicks around her music and lets it play out loud, leaving the phone on the table while she taps her foot along. She hums quietly, staring into the distance like it will solve all of her problems.

Naturally, it doesn’t. 

Nile smoothes out her shirt, sighing quietly to herself. Right. 

The door slides open, clicking shut all too quickly. Footsteps sound behind her, though they don’t linger next to her, and instead give her space to be at the other end of the balcony. When she looks over, Booker is lighting a cigarette. 

“I’ll be quick,” he promises, “sorry for interrupting.” 

“No, no, it’s alright.” Nile shakes her head, looking back out to the city. “Ignore me, really. As best you can–I’ll try not to sing or dance.” 

Booker scoffs between drags. He really is trying to inhale the cigarette, hm? “You’re allowed to do either. Both, if you wanted,” he tells her.

“I’m not good at either.” 

“Oh, that’s horseshit. I’ve heard you sing.” 

Nile laughs. “Yeah, but I can’t dance. And none of you fuckers have seen me try, either.” 

“That’s highly disappointing,” Booker muses. “What do you mean, you can’t dance?”

“I mean I did gymnastics as a kid and that’s the extent of my knowledge on how to move my body.” Nile chuckles, shaking her head. “Sorry I can’t be you.” 

“I’ll teach you, eventually. If you like.” 

She hesitates, glancing up at him with her eyebrows furrowing together. “Eventually sounds like a half-baked promise.” 

“What, would you rather now?”

“As if you would,” she says with a quiet scoff. 

Booker pauses her music, replacing it with his own. It sounds old, but sweet, and she recognizes the language as French almost instantly. Glancing to the phone he sets on the table, he offers her his hands, gesturing for her to come close. Nile considers him for a moment before stepping into his arms, taking his hand and gently putting her other hand where he tells her. He doesn’t seem used to the touch, based on how his shoulder almost instantly tenses up.

“Think you can follow my lead?” Booker asks, avoiding eye contact.

“If you’re nice about it, yes.” 

His voice is quiet, though he’s audibly singing along to _La Vie en rose_ when he’s not telling her what steps to take. The cigarette hanging off of his fingers is stubbed out shortly, and he’s got a firmer grip on her waist after that. The movements are fairly simple, but Nile knows it’s undoubtedly to make things easier on her. The most difficult motion she gets to do is a delicate spin in the middle of a twist, and Booker has the faintest smile when she’s in front of him once more.

“ _Très bien,_ ” he muses. “ _Très bien._ ”

The music, the motions, the quiet words Booker mumbles to her just make Nile want to visit France. It’s somewhat of a sin that the only time she’s gotten to go was within her first week of being immortal, but now she wants nothing more than to see it. Yet, Nile doesn’t vocalize it. Instead she listens to Booker quietly sing along to the music, memorizing the steps he’s teaching her while the tether that seems to be holding them together only tightens. They’re close enough that she could put her head on his chest if she wanted, but instead she’s watching his eyes. The blue runs deep, and they dilate noticeably as they hold the eye contact. Then again, Nile’s just twisted them so she’s the one that has to see the sun gleaming off of rooftop panels, so his eyes are more than definitely just adjusting to the darker shades of the apartment. 

He stops after two more songs, both seemingly also Édith Piaf, and pulls away from Nile. He picks up his drink and sighs, glancing out to the city.

“I should get back to work,” he says quietly, avoiding eye contact as he disappears back into the apartment.

Nile is left standing on the balcony, looking out at the city and biting on her tongue. _Work._ Yeah, maybe she should get back to that too. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i give you some minor soft time to tide you over until the end. trust me you'll need it. my booker loving self is really coming out noticeably, huh.
> 
> anyways, usual stuff. leave a comment if you enjoyed. stay dirty. that jazz.


	10. L'Enfant Plaza

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His fingers fly as fast as they can to enter it, hitting call and holding it up to his ear, praying quietly that it goes through.
> 
> _One ring. Two. Thr–_
> 
> _“Nicky?!”_
> 
> Joe’s voice. That’s his voice. 
> 
> “I’m here, tesoro mio,” Nicky says quietly, biting his lip as soon as he does. He trains his eyes on the ceiling, taking a pause before he speaks again. “I don’t have much time, and I don’t know where I am, I just...I needed to hear your voice.”
> 
> -
> 
> Or, Nicky Can't Catch a McFuckin' Break

Juliana (Julie) has never been anything but a straight A student. Her father dictated her grades, her mother dictated her social life. She ran track and field in the spring when she wanted to play softball, because softball was for lesbians and her mother wouldn’t let anyone think a congressman’s daughter was a lesbian, and she went pre-med when her mother wanted her to get an easy degree from NYU. Maybe Julie would meet a good boy while she was there, one with rich parents, and the two could marry straight out of college.

But, Julie took the reins of her life. She chose Georgetown, for what felt like stupid reasons as soon as she was on campus, for pre-med. After Georgetown, she was resigning herself to Columbia or Tufts–so long as she didn’t need to spend another four years in DC. 

She should not have been in the building she was in when she encountered the man. 

He was bloody, holding a scalpel like it was a sword. His eyes were wild and the fiercest blue she’d ever seen, his chest scarred but healing with what she knew to be autopsy patterns, and if she had the chance to watch him, she could’ve argued that he was unhinged. Until he spoke. Until he begged her for help with a thick Italian accent and a voice like butter; his eyes went from insane to terrified–he was like a caged animal that had managed to escape the zoo and just wanted to get back to his home. Wherever that was. 

Juliana had decided that her best course of action (perhaps against her better judgement) was to help him, however she could. 

The elevator was a no-go, if people were looking for him, they’d be waiting at the elevators or watching the cameras. Instead, she took him down the stairs, glancing back over her shoulder every now and then to check on him. For his body looking so strong, the way it carried him seemed so _weak_ and fragile. He’d gripped the railing like he would fall over if he let go for just a second, and his knees almost buckled on a few of the stairs they took too quickly. When she got him to the first floor, she heard it too; the boots thundering down the stairs, undoubtedly belonging to the people that were holding this man captive.

She looked at him again as she pushed open the stairwell door, really looked at him. From what she could interpret, and from what she knew of this building, she could tell that this wasn’t a psych ward patient that had managed to break out. What he was instead, she didn’t know, but she wanted to help to the best of her ability.

The doors to exit the building were as far as he got. A group of armed men, three men in suits leading them, had blocked off the route back into the building, and all that was left was for him to go out. Juliana had watched him gather all of his energy before her eyes, what seemed to be an immense job, and then watched him run. She followed him out the doors, at a much slower pace, just wanting to see what he did with the freedom he had. Well, what little freedom he could get from a college campus.

She’d never seen this area so empty before, but perhaps the second group of armed men explained it. They moved quickly to corner him, but like a scared animal, he had lashed out with inhuman speed, skill, and grace. They shot him in the head as soon as he tried to run away from them. 

Julie stood, locked in place, as they went over to his body to kick it, adding an extra bullet into his brain. She couldn’t look away from the horror for a few moments too long. Instead of lingering when she came back to reality, she shut her mouth and hurried down the stairs to get away from the scene as fast as possible. 

“Miss? Please hold on, we need to talk to you briefly…” 

She’d been stopped by a pair of suits, who flashed her CIA badges and explained the situation briefly. Not a single word was processed, and what was processed, she did not believe. Her name was Juliana Banks, she told them, she was a pre-med student here and had wandered into the wrong building by accident, she didn’t mean to cause any harm.

They were taking the man back inside, his lifeless eyes staring into the sky until…until he blinked, made eye contact with her, and mouthed one word. 

_Grazie._

Was she seeing things? That couldn’t have been real, right? 

He started fighting, and the other people were reacting to it, and Julie could justify that if she was seeing things, this was perhaps one of the craziest trips she’d ever been on. With the suits running over to take care of the situation, Julie did what she thought was right: she ran home. 

She lived off-campus, sharing a two-bedroom apartment with her roommate Sarah, who was out clubbing for the night. Celebrating a friend's birthday, if Julie remembered correctly. 

Julie was afraid to try and sleep, in complete honesty. The images of the man being killed in front of her kept coming back to haunt her when she shut her eyes for too long, never mind just how _ghostly_ he’d looked. Part of her wanted to call her sister about it, but by now, her sister was undoubtedly asleep; she was on an excursion in Europe with some friends, and by now she’d be in...Amsterdam, if Julie remembered correctly. 

In perfect honesty, she didn’t even hear them come in. The two men that appeared in her room and stood over her bed, one of them holding a small pistol. She begged them to leave her alone, that whatever they wanted, they could have. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she mentioned her father would do whatever they asked, so long as they didn’t kill her. She told them she didn’t know why they would want to kill her, that her father was so not special, that _anyone else_ would have been better.

“You know too much,” the one to her right had said, pressing the gun into her hand and forcing her to hold it to her own head.

He pulled the trigger for her. 

–

Nicky is running out of energy very quickly. 

It doesn’t help that he’s run out of ways to tell how many days have passed. Maybe it’s been more than days since he was moved to DC, maybe they’ve moved into weeks. The only way he can tell time has passed is when Curtis comes in one morning, telling one of the guards to have a pleasant Labor Day weekend. Nicky doesn’t often keep up with American holidays (there’s too many that just don’t make sense) but he can look back into the corners of his mind and figure out when Labor Day is.

September.

Oh, good God, he’s been here since June. 

The lump in his throat that slowly rises from that realization is a difficult one to push down. At first he thought he’d be able to pull something off, escape however that came to be. He tried, and he hasn’t been able to get close since. With his body getting notably weaker whenever they throw him into a solitary confinement room to sleep, the sole chance he gets to really stretch his legs, the weakness keeps shining through. Though, he can’t focus on it for long before the exhaustion settles back in, and he’s curling up in a corner to attempt and get some sleep before they drag him back out to either torture him, experiment on him, or maim him in some various other way.

The hours he spends awake blend together. He’s in too much constant pain to even consider putting in the energy to try and keep track of time anymore, which is shocking considering he has an unusually high pain tolerance. When it gives way, allowing him small periods where his body merely aches, Nicky tries to take advantage the best he can. Whether it’s sleeping or...no, it’s almost always trying to get actual rest. 

Nicky dreams, too. That may be the worst part. He dreams of perfectly normal days, and while it’s nothing special, each dream that he remembers just makes his heart ache for home. The night before he’s moved onto a plane is the night he dreams the most vividly of Joe yet, and when he wakes up with reality smacking him in the face, he finds that pesky little lump in his throat coming back. 

Quynh is with them on the plane. She sits next to Nicky for almost the entire flight, and her hand on the armrest that one of his hands is cuffed to. Though she hasn’t spoken to him in what he imagines is weeks, she’s still a strangely comforting presence in the hellhole they’ve found themselves in. 

“ _How are you doing?"_ she asks quietly, her voice taking a language Nicky hasn’t heard in a long, long time. 

“ _Awful. Terrible. But I’m still holding on,_ ” he answers, surprised that he knows how to speak the proper words. “ _And you?"_

“ _You were right, Nicky. All that time ago, when you told me they’d turn on me. As soon as we get off this plane, my destination is the same as yours._ ”

His chest aches at the thought. “ _I’m so sorry–"_

“ _Do not apologize for something which is my fault,_ ” she tells him, her voice turning cold. “ _It will be alright. I find some fucked up form of solace in knowing I will have company this time around._ ”

“ _We’ll get out of this, you know._ ”

“ _Nicolò, you could barely put up a worthwhile fight when they uncuffed you in the lab. You die for three minutes at a time, sometimes more, and your body isn’t healing as it should. That’s just you, what happens when I’m in the same boat?"_ Quynh huffs. “ _I’m just thankful my body will reject any pregnancy they attempt to force upon me. Right now, it’s the only hope I have._ ”

Nicky’s hand shifts, just slightly, so that he can rest his hand on Quynh’s. “ _Y_ _ou still want to kill us, don’t you? Make us suffer for what happened?"_

“ _I do. I want you all to understand just how much it hurts, the loneliness, but…helping the Americans create half-immortals is not the way to do it. Yes, they’ll wage war on the world, destroy it, but what will it cost? I will not get what I want out of it–freedom would be but a joke. They’ll keep me strapped to a table until I lose my immortality._ ”

“ _Andy has._ ”

Quynh goes absolutely rigid underneath Nicky’s touch. “ _She…she what?"_

“ _Andy lost her immortality several years ago. It’s a miracle she hasn’t gotten herself killed yet._ ” Nicky finds himself sighing. “ _Did no-one tell you?"_

“ _They knew_?”

“ _Kozak knew, so yes._ ”

She taps the arms of the seat, her nails clicking gently on the wood. Nicky knows there’s an internal monologue pouring through her head, and he knows better than to try and talk through it. Especially when he’s so close to getting her back on his side. 

He shuts his eyes and lets his head rest back, trying to get some brief rest that his body is already begging for once more. Someone near them has food, something that smells strong, but even after all this time of Curtis eating _directly in front of him_ as some sort of sick fucking joke, Nicky isn’t sure whether he wants it or wants to vomit at the mere thought of it. Kozak at least has the decency to leave food outside the lab most days.

“ _We’ll get out of this, Nicolò_ ,” Quynh tells him, jarring him from his rest.

It’s the _we_ part of the sentiment that almost puts a ghostly smile on Nicky’s lips. “ _We will. Just like old times._ ”

“ _I was disappointed when you didn’t escape in June,_ ” she mentions, rather bluntly. “ _Though, I appreciate you getting close._ ”

“ _You…you what?"_

“ _I loosened your bonds both times you tried to escape,_ ” she admits. 

Nicky sits in silence, his jaw getting tight at the notion. “ _Why_.”

“ _I regretted it immediately after each time. Perhaps I saw what they were doing to you and decided I didn’t want even you to suffer like that. Perhaps I knew you were right, every time you called me out._ ” Quynh chuckles a bit, though it’s sad. “ _What use is it now?"_

He says nothing about it in reply, but still finds himself with words. “ _Why don’t you try to leave now?"_

“ _There’s nowhere I can go, Nicky. I do not know much of anything in this world yet, though I’ve just grasped the updates to languages. I have barely any money, I can’t drive, I do not possess any weapons…never mind that I’ll be shot for breathing wrong, they’ve been watching me all morning as though I would not notice._ ” 

Nicky glances to her, offering his hand for her to take. Her fingers clasp loosely around his palm, but grow tight soon after.

“ _I have something for you,_ ” she adds on, “ _when we get there._ ”

He shuts his eyes again, preferring the darkness than staring at the ceiling blankly. " _Oh?"_

“ _It’s not much, but I came into a…there’s no word for it in this language, but a burner phone. I understand not knowing where we are, but…_ ”

Nicky’s heart rockets into his throat. “ _I don’t care, I’ll take it._ ” 

Quynh chuckles quietly, squeezing his hand. “ _I thought you might like it._ _They’ll either take it from you or try to track it though, you know, yes?"_

“ _I know, of course._ ” Nicky shakes his head, finding the faintest trace of a smile coming to him. 

There’s an agent prepping his arm before he can even completely turn, and though he’s disappointed, he is not surprised when the needle is pulled out of a small plastic bag. Nicky can’t help the struggle this time, trying to pull away from it while another agent has to come over to hold him down. The _drug_ isn’t what he’s afraid of, it’s the _needle,_ which is the last thing he wants to admit (and, thankfully, won’t have to).

It hits him in a wave, his body not even trying to reject it. A rush into his head that smacks him straight out of it, even though he tries to fight the high. This one _hurts_ more than it sends him into bliss, ripping straight through his head and setting his lungs and heart on fire with every inhale, every beat. 

Nicky squeezes his eyes shut, taking long, slow breaths that fill his lungs with more oxygen and mumbling a soft _madre de dio_ to himself. Part of him can’t quite comprehend how much it hurts, the other part knows it’s not quite the worst pain he’s ever felt, but it’s damned close. Letting his head lean back, he realizes his eyes are vaguely damp, but the best he can do to rectify the situation is use his shoulder to rub at them, but it can only do so much.

_Is this even a high?_

It feels more like a toxin to his body, something dragging him further and further down into himself until he’s left in complete darkness. 

His eyes open to grey skies. The drug-induced pain is gone, and he’s left half-conscious as he is pushed and prodded off of the plane and lifted into a car. Nicky tugs at the cuffs keeping his wrists dangling in front of him, but can’t quite figure out how to get them off. There’s gunfire from outside, something that has the daze smacked right out of Nicky as he moves back to the door he was shoved in through to get a view. 

Quynh has snatched a gun from an agent, killed one of them and is preparing to kill another. Nicky yanks on the door as best he can to try and slip out to _help_ her, but it does not open. She takes another two potshots, kills another agent, and gets close to opening the door for Nicky before her brain is splattered across the window. 

_Jesus fucking Christ._

The door is opened, Quynh’s body thrown inside once her hands have been cuffed behind her back. Her head is in Nicky’s lap, staining his pants with blood. He does his best to shift her body, keep her in a better position to allow her to get air while she’s healing. Her hum of pain is muffled, but it comes through shortly while her body is still piecing itself back together. 

“Fuck,” she finally says, though still muffled by Nicky’s thigh. 

“ _You shouldn’t have done that_ ,” he mumbles, the Italian getting caught in his throat as he smoothes out her hair. “ _You shouldn’t have…_ ”

“ _I know, I know–_ ah, ngh _._ ” Quynh winces, her body curling in on itself as she smushes her face further into Nicky’s leg. “ _What the hell is that bullet made out of?"_

“ _I don’t know. It goes away after a few hours,_ ” he promises. “ _Just don’t get shot again before then, it’ll hurt worse._ ”

Quynh gasps, a small noise escaping her vocal chords that is easily identifiable as _hurt_. His first instinct is to help, find a way to make it stop hurting for her, but he knows he’s utterly powerless to do so right now. 

“ _Tell me what you need me to do to help,_ ” Nicky finally says, deciding it’s worth it to try.

“ _I don’t...I don’t know._ ” Quynh shakes her head. “ _Just...I’ll let you know._ ” 

Nicky knows it means to shut up. He stays quiet, watching her contort her body to try and make the pain lessen. Nothing seems to be working. As much as Nicky wants to curse her, tell her that she did this to herself and she had this coming, that she deserves every moment of pain she’s going through and about to go through, he can’t. Not a single bone in his body genuinely wants to see her hurting, and perhaps it’s why he’s so quick to want to help her through the pain. 

The car begins moving, and Nicky makes no moves to shift Quynh. He takes to watching out the window, the gray sky seemingly endless and promising rain at a later hour. At one point, he glances down to check on Quynh, only to find she fell asleep on his lap, her forehead pressed to his stomach. For the briefest moment, he cracks a small smile. 

_At least she’s not hurting._

As much as he hates the circumstance, a part of him is somewhat happy that it’s him and Quynh versus the world again, something that he had perhaps missed the most in her time at the bottom of the ocean. If Joe was closer to Andy in their little group, Nicky had been infinitely closer to Quynh–granted, things had changed, but a part of him hadn’t forgotten. 

He is gentle in the way he wakes her up when they stop in front of a building, one that Nicky did not have the chance to read the sign for. She jolts awake with a start, then presses her forehead right back into his belly–Nicky can’t lie, it doesn’t feel great with the way his stomach is constantly flip-flopping and wringing itself out, but he’s not about to tell her that. Perhaps the biggest crime his body has thus far pulled on him is the way it tries to deal with the whole _not eating_ thing; for the most part, he doesn’t feel anything, but what he can imagine is every couple weeks, he’ll spend a few days in agony. Whether this is his body’s way of resetting or simply telling him that he should really be _trying_ to scavenge something up, he can’t say.

“ _Are we here?"_ Quynh asks, her voice quiet. “ _I assume yes, but it’s bright and I’m not about to look outside._ ”

“ _Yeah, we’re here,_ ” he tells her. 

She slowly pulls herself upright, her eyes narrowed into a squint against the light pouring in. “ _Great._ ”

Quynh, surprisingly, does not put up a fight as they are escorted into the building. It seems to be getting dark, slowly but surely, though Nicky can’t be too sure of where that means they are. Ultimately, they are taken to the sixth floor and put in a small room together. It resembles a cell more than a solitary room, in that there’s a sink on the wall and a toilet in the corner, a mat seemingly to act as a designated bed. The floors are cold tile, walls a dark, chipping gray paint. There’s a small window at the top of the room to let in natural light, otherwise it is dark. Before the guards lock them in, their cuffs are switched out to give them a little bit more length from wrist to wrist, thankfully in the front.

“ _They’ll search me soon,_ ” she tells Nicky in the language he doesn’t know the name of, but he knows it’s hers, “ _before the end of the night._ ”

“ _I understand,_ ” he tells her, his words slow and careful. 

“ _If you could, I’d appreciate some help in cutting my hair. We can leave the razor and the scissors by the door, if they want to take them._ ” Quynh stretches out her arms to the best of her ability, fishing around in her pocket and pulling out the familiar items. “ _Please?"_

“... _how short?"_

Quynh gestures to the bottom of her earlobe before she hands Nicky the scissors. He does the job to the best of his ability, in limited light and with limited skill, but he manages to salvage something workable for her. It’s strange to see her with such short hair, especially when he’s just cut off a foot of it, but she ruffles it and runs her fingers through it. 

“ _I’m not about to let them try to braid it or otherwise get it out of the way,_ ” she tells him plainly. “ _I refuse to let them. Now, come here, let me fix you up since I probably won’t be able to after this._ ”

Nicky lets her cut his hair and give him a shave. It feels oddly normal at this point, and somewhat relaxing. She sets the razor and the scissors next to the door, as promised, and goes to sit on the mat, gesturing for Nicky to join her. He does, with some hesitation, his eyes continuing to skirt around the room as if someone could come in at any moment. Probably because someone _could_ come in at any moment and ruin what he was about to do.

“Here,” Quynh says softly, fishing around in her pocket for a long moment before producing a small flip phone.

He’s wary of it, but he can hope for thirty five seconds, maybe a minute before someone comes in and he has to stop. He takes it carefully. Shutting his eyes, Nicky looks through his memory to try and recall the proper number–Joe always carried a burner phone, just in case something like this happened, but nobody ever thought they would actually _need_ it–but he finds it after a bit of deliberation.

His fingers fly as fast as they can to enter it, hitting _call_ and holding it up to his ear, praying quietly that it goes through.

_One ring. Two. Thr–_

“ _Nicky?!"_

Joe’s voice. That’s _his voice_. 

“I’m here, _tesoro mio_ ,” Nicky says quietly, biting his lip as soon as he does. He trains his eyes on the ceiling, taking a pause before he speaks again. “I don’t have much time, and I don’t know where I am, I just...I needed to hear your voice.”

The voice on the other end of the line grows thick all too quickly, efficiently tearing Nicky’s heart apart. “ _You’re alive–are you okay? We know who has you, we’ve been trying to track them–what are they doing? It’s been almost three months, Nicky, I…_ ” Joe trails off.

“I’m okay, I’m alright,” he lies smoothly, not daring to look at Quynh. “I don’t think you want to know the answer to your question, at least what I know...really, you probably know more than I do, if I’m being honest.”

“ _I’ve seen a few things, but I was really hoping they weren’t true._ ”

“They probably are,” Nicky admits with a light chuckle. “Quynh says it takes a few minutes at a time for me to come back.” 

“ _Don’t get me started on her–_ ”

“She’s next to me, _habibi._ She...she gave me the phone, they have her too, we’re...in this together now.” 

Quynh butts in, “Tell them I say hello.” 

“She says hello,” Nicky adds. He still can’t bring himself to look at her, and instead focuses on keeping his breaths even and his voice steady even when his chest is tight. 

“ _I...I heard her._ ” Joe sighs audibly, though there’s audibly background noise coming from his end of the line. Nicky can recognize basic voice-pitches of Andy, Booker, and Nile. 

There’s something about just being on the line, staying quiet, that is comforting to Nicky. Perhaps it’s knowing that all he has to do is say the magic word and Joe’s voice will come back, or perhaps it’s that there’s company, even if it’s not right in front of him.

“I can’t stay,” Nicky finally says. “I should probably go, I don’t trust staying on the line too long…” 

“ _Nicky, wait–_ ”

His language shifts to Genoese, a dialect he’s been deliberate about not speaking even if he’s not sure it would make a difference. “I love you, okay? And I miss you more than I can bear–I’ll be okay, I promise. I’m holding on...maybe losing it a little, you know how I get when I haven’t eaten, and admittedly I’m somewhat terrified, but I’m still holding on _._ ” 

Joe’s dialect shifts right alongside Nicky’s. “ _I miss you too, my love. We all do–I promise, I’m going to find you. Soon._ ” If Nicky knows Joe (which, he does), he knows that Joe has taken a hold of a table or the back of a chair, hunching over the phone. “ _The fact that you’re not here is killing me, I...I’m lost without you. It’s like being in a blizzard, looking for the North Star to get back home._ ”

“You and I both know this isn’t forever–” 

“ _Don’t say that until I actually have a chance at finding you._ ”

It slams into Nicky like a truck, Joe’s words. He didn’t think they would hurt, especially when he knew that would be the truth of the matter, but once it is acknowledged? Said and projected out into the world? Nicky’s breath hitches in his throat, Quynh’s hand almost reflexively going to hold his shoulder. He knows his voice is going to be off now, thicker or a different pitch, but he can’t help the weight of all of this crashing onto him at once.

“Okay,” Nicky says. 

“ _I will find you, I promise, my love. I’d travel the world alone for a thousand years if it meant helping you get out,_ ” Joe tells him, his words quick and soft. “ _I won’t stop until I have you in my arms again._ ” 

“Fuck, wait, there’s...you _have_ to look into the six children–it’s going to hurt, but you need to,” Nicky tacks on far too quickly, trying to say it before he forgets. His hands move to try and enunciate what he’s saying, even if Joe can’t see. “I just...I had to say it. I hope it doesn’t come to a thousand years alone. That’s...a long time, I don’t know if–”

“ _You are one of the strongest people I’ve ever met, Nicolò, if that’s what you’re implying._ ” 

“It is.” His shoulders slump as soon as he says it.

“ _I’m bringing the cavalry with me, don’t worry._ ” Joe’s voice is shaking now, only slightly, but enough for Nicky to pick up. 

Nicky spends a swift moment deciding on the right words before they come to him. “ _Ana uhibbuka_.”

“ _Habib albi."_

“I need to go, I’ve spent far too much time–you need to move, now. The fact they haven’t come in yet means they’re probably trying to trace the call…”

Joe takes another shaking breath. “ _I understand._ ” 

“I’m sorry” is the last thing Nicky says before he hangs up, not giving Joe the chance to reply. 

He snaps the phone as quickly as he can, sticking the pieces under his boot to crush, but he can barely finish the first piece before there’s agents in the room, pushing him against the wall with a gun to his forehead so they can salvage the pieces left behind. Nicky does not fight against them, he only stares daggers into the agent who is pressing the gun to his head, watching the small team of three leave just as quickly as they came. 

It’s begun to rain.

Nicky hadn’t noticed that the window is open, though it’s too small for him to even consider climbing out of. Between his shoulders and his ass, he’s aware it’s hopeless.

Yet, the rain would explain the cold that began to seep into the room. He’s suddenly very glad he gets to keep the shirt for now, because it’s definitely going to help with the whole not being cold thing. That, or he spoons Quynh (more accurately, _Quynh_ spoons _him_ ), and he knows for a fact neither of them are ready for that sort of thing yet. 

Nicky slumps back against the wall, pulling his legs up to his chest and letting his forehead rest on his knees. 

“I am going to regret existing. I know it,” Quynh mumbles from next to Nicky, her hand going to grasp his once more. 

Nicky doesn’t mind. 

She continues, “I really hope...oh, who am I kidding.” 

“What?” 

“I really hope this is not going to last forever.” 

He sighs. “Forever is different to you and me,” he tells her, “but...perhaps it will be our forever.” 

“What are you saying?”

“That I know I don’t have the stamina to do this for years and years.” Nicky sighs, turning his head so he can look at her. “I don’t think my body does either.” 

Quynh looks hurt, but perhaps that’s also annoyance flickering in her eyes. “You cannot just _give up_ ,” she tells him, her voice hard. “After drowning for a few centuries, this is just another stone for me to get back to Andromache–”

“What if there’s no Andy to get back to?” 

“Don’t you _dare_ fucking tell me that,” Quynh snarls, squeezing his hand tighter instead of letting go. “If nothing else, you made a promise to Yusuf that you would go out together–have a little faith in us, in _them_. It will not be years.”

“I hope not, of course I _hope_ it will not be years, but I don’t know how much room I have to hope anymore.” He pauses to take a shaking breath, raking his fingers through his greasy hair. “Yet...you seem sure of this.”

“I have had time to think about it.” Quynh sighs and shakes her head, the anger quickly evaporating from her as she slumps back against the wall as well. “Too much time to think about it.” 

Nicky hesitates before he speaks. “I sense regret.” 

“Perhaps a little.” She pauses. “I may have made a lot of mistakes.” 

“It’s okay to make mistakes, Quynh.” 

“I regret a lot, actually.” She moves closer, letting her head rest on Nicky’s shoulder. “And I am sorry for what I did.” 

“I forgave you when you did it.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> god bless my beta readers.
> 
> we're in the endgame now.
> 
> stay dangerous. the drill. you know how it be.


	11. 95th/Dan Ryan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nile says, quietly, “I guess there is. I’ve lost that train of thought though. Predominantly I’m just worried about… us, as a family, falling apart–” her voice breaks when she tries to continue, “–I’m scared of us fracturing apart. I’m scared of…being alone.” 
> 
> As soon as she says the words, she feels her heart sink into the pit of her stomach. She can’t even bring herself to look at Booker, and instead continues to play with her loose jewelry. Even if she wasn’t in direct agreement with the verdict they had given him, it was still the verdict given, and she’d still chosen her side. God, she wishes she were driving right now, even if she’d be going eighty miles an hour over the speed limit again. 
> 
> “You will never be alone, Nile,” Booker finally says, his voice soft. 
> 
> “Even if…say tomorrow, Andy packs up her bags and says she’s going back to Europe, or she just vanishes into the night. Say that happens. What then?” Nile’s eyes skirt up to look at him, watching his movements.
> 
> His eyes are trained on the road. “I would stay.” 
> 
> —
> 
> Or, Nile and Booker Go To Chicago

Two weeks turned into two months, and Copley had to call and tell them that Nicky had been moved from Georgetown and he wouldn’t be seeing Redthorn after all. Not, at least, for a long while. Booker was livid, Nile recalls, beating himself up for hours about not putting the congressman’s daughter and Copley’s remark about a hit squad together, along with something about _Gérard said a university_. He probably went through half a pack of cigarettes before Andy gently reminded him it was Tuesday nearing eleven hundred hours, and he proceeded to lock himself in his room for an hour. Nile sat on the couch with Andy, Joe sitting between them after twenty minutes. It was silent between the three, completely, save for the TV Andy turned on so they couldn’t hear whatever Booker was talking about in the other room. The few words Nile _could_ hear before it was turned on were French.

Nile remembers holding herself together, but barely. She remembers getting into a group hug with Joe and Andy and sitting there for far too long. It felt like Copley had called and said Nicky was dead. The _forever_ kind of dead. 

Nicky gave them a Hail Mary call in September, as they were staying at a hotel in Jersey, driving down to DC to scavenge whatever could be left over at Georgetown. Nile remembers watching every part of Joe crumple in when the phone rang from a backpack near the dinner table. He’d never moved so fast to rip through the bag and pull it out, answering the call with a strangled desperation and slowly but surely walking back to the table. His words softened, the thickness of his voice coming through as Joe’s fingers curled around the table, hunching over the phone. _Did Nicky get to a phone?_ Nile had asked, looking between Andy and Booker. Booker was watching the whole scene, mumbling quietly while Andy asked Joe questions that she undoubtedly knew he would not answer. 

Andy, particularly, looked crushed after he said _I heard her_. Nile could only assume that meant Quynh, and the way Andy was staring blankly off into the wall like she’d seen a ghost hurt more than it should have. Thank God for Booker, who had simply taken Nile’s hand and held it. That was all. It was definitely a reaction to seeing her prepare to get emotional, and his presence was grounding enough that Nile could breathe and keep herself completely together.

Joe broke the phone once the call hung up. It looked like a burner, Nile wasn’t surprised, but Joe merely shook his head. Nicky had been moved, he confirmed he was no longer at a University, the rest seemed personal. Joe didn’t finish dinner, and slipped outside with that. Though Nile initially got up to check on him, Andy stopped her from going out. _Give him time,_ she said, _he needs a bit._

She was there when he found out.

Nile was sitting on the couch in the motel, flicking through things on the tablet. Booker was asleep for once, while Andy had gone out to walk or scavenge or whatever it was that she did when they were working. Joe usually wouldn’t have been at the laptop, but he’d exhausted his other options for the day. There initially was a short string of Arabic, what Nile vaguely recognized as swears. _That_ was what got her to look up, stand and make her way over to the desk Joe was sitting at.

“What is it?” she asked quietly, aware that she was being far too nosey for her own good, but the sinking feeling in her chest was that it was not pleasant news.

Joe didn’t say a word at first, just pushed the computer to tilt it towards her. She squinted, primarily to start an attempt at reading the tiny font, but didn’t get far before he was speaking.

“ _Children._ These people are conducting experiments on _children_ ,” he said softly, his voice shaking as the words fell from his mouth. “I...they’re technically Nicky and I’s... _fuck_.” 

Nile was dead silent. She set a gentle hand on Joe’s shoulder, not knowing what else she could do. 

“Jesus Christ” was what Nile managed to say, and even if it was more of a breathy whisper than a statement. She knew it was true, she believed every word of it, but she couldn’t process all of the information or rationalize that someone would _actually_ carry through with such a thing.

Joe did not speak again. He closed the computer and shut his eyes, his breaths coming slowly but seeming to fill his whole chest. Nile gave his shoulder a small squeeze, and after a moment, she felt his hand rest on hers. It was like an energy had been sucked out of the room, leaving behind nothing but a faint trace of residue. 

“Are there any left?” Nile found herself asking. “Are any still alive that we could help?”

Joe shook his head, sharply exhaling. “There are talks of them creating more,” he told her, very clearly having a hard time processing from the tone of his voice alone. 

“Let’s make sure it doesn’t happen, yeah?” 

He nodded. Though he was clearly withholding information, Nile was not going to push him on it. Not then, not when it was a fresh wound ripped into his chest. As she chewed on her bottom lip, thinking over everything, Nile couldn’t figure out how she was supposed to help. Her only choice seemed to stay with him for now, even if there were definitely better options.

How in the hell does one comfort someone who’s just found out that they had a child–multiple, even–only for said children to be killed under guise of science? Nile didn’t know then, she doesn’t know now. 

Two months turned to four, then six. Every time they get close to a lead on an exact location, every time they break in and kill everyone present, they’re gone. No leads, just a trail gone cold. Never as close as New York, with three hours to spare, but usually within the week. Georgetown turned into a Seattle laboratory turned into an off-campus UCI medical facility, which took them back up to Los Angeles only to find that UCLA offered nothing. 

The Guard had retreated into Illinois as an attempt to be more in the middle of the continental United States. Theoretically, if they got any lead, they could try to get there quickly. Booker was of the thinking that they’d exhausted the west coast facilities, and aiming for the middle of the country or the east coast was more likely than getting pulled back towards the Pacific again. Nile had to agree, though she was also getting worried about the potential of having to leave the country to continue the pursuit. 

They arrived at the run down house last night, one that Andy briefly said was from the fifties, and since everything is so fucking flat and abandoned mines were out of the question, this was what they got. 

Joe hadn’t been with them. He said he would be in the area, and he leaves voicemails every night so they know he’s still alive and well, but Nile hasn’t seen him in over two weeks now. It’s starting to become concerning. Hopefully, he’s just in Chicago or Milwaukee or something, but it’s unsettling to think that he could very well be in Canada. He promised he would return when he could, but he was out trying to find information on Nicky, and nobody was going to stop him. It was very quickly proving that without any real access to the entirety of Redthorn, and no way to gain access without going to Langley itself (a thing that was beginning to look more and more appealing to Nile), they have come to an impasse. Nicky was taken in June. It’s December now. 

Andy watched a movie with Nile that night, though retreated to the bedroom to sleep before Nile had gone to bed. Booker was outside smoking or working on the car, one of the two things he does when he’s not scrutinizing anything he can find on his computer or running with Nile in the mornings. Hell, he still barely had anything on Redthorn, even with the few breaks he’d managed to exploit and swipe classified files. He’d been trying to piece together everything he could, but to no avail.

Nile wakes up with a blanket covering her, not realizing she’d fallen asleep on the couch. She sits up slowly, blinking at the morning midwestern sunlight streaming in through the windows. It’s familiar, she loves that, yet it does not comfort her the way it used to.

“Coffee?” Booker offers from behind Nile, his voice soft and heavy with sleep. “Or do you want to wait?”

Right, it’s Sunday. Usually, she would be running, but last night she’d convinced Booker to let her borrow the car so she could go to Mass in Chicago. At this point, the little bit of normalcy would be nice, even if she hadn’t gone in years. At first, he wasn’t going to go with her, but he did eventually ask if he could tag along. Her explanation was an attempt to be delicate at first, explaining that she was Catholic, but all he had to do was raise an eyebrow and say “ _yeah, so am I”_ for her to put two and two together in regards to some of the little quirks he had. She’d assumed they were just quirks, though she’d also assumed he was an atheist, but clearly not. 

Ultimately, Nile had decided she wouldn’t mind the company. Hell, maybe she’d need it, seeing as she was going back home for the first time in close to a decade.

“I’ll wait,” Nile tells him, stretching out her stiff limbs. “If you want some though, go ahead.” 

“Alright.” 

She hunts around in her bag for clothes, changing in one of the other rooms. Andy has no shame after six thousand years (though, neither does Nicky, but that also may have to do with the modeling he does for figure drawing), but it doesn’t mean that Nile is prepared to change in front of the group yet. Or, well, half of the group. What little seems to be left. 

Once she’s in her nicer clothes, Nile knocks on the door to the room Andy’s in, poking her head inside. “Hey, Andy? I’m going to Mass with Booker. We’ll be back after lunchtime.” 

“I’m capable of being on my own,” Andy says. She’s lacing up boots, though she glances quickly to Nile. “I hope you both are aware of that. I’ll probably be going into town, getting stuff for the fridge and seeing what kind of ammo they have.” 

_Right._ Running low on ammunition too. 

Andy continues, “I’ll also probably do some maintenance on Nicky’s sword.” 

“We’re not going to be gone for _that_ long–“

“I know.” Andy straightens out, pulling on a jacket, then a coat over that. “I work fast, you should know this by now. Also, it’s cold out, Nile, I hope you brought your scarf and coat.” 

“Booker has an extra that I’m borrowing.” Nile steps to the side to let Andy out of the room, watching her hunt around for a wallet. 

“Good. Be safe, alright? Don’t do anything stupid, Copley’s not available to clean up our messes for the weekend–he’s out of town.” 

“We will be, we will be. I promise,” Nile assures her with a little smile. “Have some faith in us.” 

“You? I have plenty of faith in. Booker? Not so much.” 

Nile can’t keep the smile up for long after. “He’ll be fine.” 

“I know, I’m kidding.” Andy slips past Nile, heading to the door. “I’ll see you both later today. Don’t be seen.”

Watching her disappear out into the street, Andy merely goes for a walk while Nile plucks up the car keys. _Don’t be seen_. Nile knows exactly what it means: _don’t go where people who knew you could see you and recognize you_. It’s smart, and Nile wasn’t even planning on going to her old church, but caution can’t be thrown to the wind. Not here, not so close to home. One wrong move and Nile has to encounter a family member she thought she left behind, or an old friend who can’t keep their mouth shut.

Booker cleans up well. He’s definitely formal, which is a significant upgrade to what he’s usually wearing. Nile fixes his tie, shaking her head and mumbling quietly about _two hundred years and you can’t even tie a tie properly,_ though it only gets a laugh out of him. He stands still as she adjusts it and steps away, smoothing it out one last time before she nods.

“I’m ready if you are,” she tells him, nodding once. 

He holds out a heavy-looking men’s coat for her to shrug into. It’s far too big on her, but it will do against the cold. Usually, she doesn’t notice the fact that Booker has almost half a foot on her height-wise, but it’s painfully obvious as she slips into the heels (the only things ensuring the coat does not, in fact, touch the ground). It’s at least soft inside, a comforting level of warm that smells like antiques, salt water and cologne. 

“We can go,” he says. “I’m set.” 

The car is cold when she climbs into it, Booker still locking up the house as she turns the key in the ignition. The BMW purrs to life, the radio quietly beginning to hum a vaguely familiar melody that Nile turns down. Booker hurries over to shotgun, slipping in and flicking on the heat. 

“We’ll need to get gas in the city, but we should be alright to get _into_ it,” he mentions. 

“Sounds good.” 

Nile’s driving habits have managed to downgrade, she very quickly realizes. Usually, she wouldn’t be this bad, and it’s not even from a concern of getting there late. With an estimated hour into the city proper while not seeing _any_ traffic, Nile can afford to drive fast. The car lets her push the pedal to the metal, the dark skies and promise of rain in the near future only assisting in her attempts to push out all the bad thoughts that are swimming in her head. About Nicky. About Quynh. Chicago. Home. Booker. Joe. The aching numbness that has begun to try to consume her body whole.

The radio is quiet. It’s on for sake of more noise, but what Nile is really listening to is the purr of the engine as she shifts gears and swings into a turn. The entire world shifts into slow motion as the car begins to drift, the empty roads ahead trying to swallow her whole. Her eyes flick to Booker in the seat next to her; long enough to acknowledge that he’s there, but not long enough to see what he’s doing or what face he’s making. Once the car has slid onto the main road, the world reverts back to normal speed as she keeps them going down the road. 

“Nile.” Booker’s voice is oddly gentle from the seat next to her. “Nile, slow down.” 

Her eyes dart to him briefly, but this time she can note that he’s gripping the handle above the door and his entire body has gone rigid. A glance to the speedometer gives her the realization: _110 MPH._ It takes a lot of willpower not to just slam on the brakes, but she slows them down and stops them in the middle of the empty road. The engine has gone quiet, the radio almost a whisper, and Booker’s steady breathing all she takes note of before she gently presses her forehead into the steering wheel. 

“What’s on your mind?” 

Nile doesn’t look up when he asks, she only shuts her eyes and taps the dashboard with the tips of her fingers. 

“I don’t know,” she admits, her voice quiet but oddly thick. “Everything? Nothing? So much that it feels like my head is blank.” 

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Nile’s next breath is shaking as she exhales. “Maybe.” 

Booker’s fingers tap on the dashboard, louder than her own. He sighs before he speaks. “Let me drive. Just tell me where to go and we’ll go.” 

“Okay.” 

Nile slips out of the car, glancing up and down the empty road before going around the back to climb into shotgun. Booker only begins driving once Nile is settled in, and it’s at a much slower pace than previously. She finds herself staring blankly ahead at the road instead of speaking for a long moment. 

“I don’t know where to begin,” she finally decides on.

“What comes to mind first?”

She shakes her head. “I suppose…Nicky. For obvious reasons. I don’t know, it’s just… _six months_. It’s been six months and the trail went almost cold after Georgetown. I don’t want to think about it, but what if we don’t find him again? What if we’ve lost him forever? Fuck, I never see Joe anymore, he’s always gone hunting down possible leads and coming back with barely anything. It’s been two weeks since we’ve seen him– _two weeks_. I’m not saying he was captured, but I am saying that I don’t know if we’re going to see him again until we find Nicky. And when would that be? Another six months? Six _years_?”

There’s hesitation, as if he’s checking that she’s finished, before Booker replies. “We’re going to find him–I _know_ I keep saying that, I know, but it’s because I believe it. I believe that we’ve got no choice _but_ to find him. Hell, if…if _hell froze over_ , I would still be looking. Nobody deserves to go through what he’s going through, and it’s the least I can fucking do after the shitshow at Merrick’s.” 

“And how are we supposed to fight Quynh? She’s _with_ them, she can’t exactly go down like the rest of them, so what happens when we run into her and have to kill her over and over again? Could you do it? Could Joe? Could Andy? If it came down to getting out of there or killing her–“

“I could. I would.” His voice goes cold for the brief moment, and when Nile looks to the wheel, she can see his knuckles turning white.

Nile sighs, her breath still shaking as she looks down to her own hands, playing with loose jewelry.

“There’s still more on your mind.” 

Nile says, quietly, “I guess there is. I’ve lost that train of thought though. Predominantly I’m just worried about… _us_ , as a family, falling apart–” her voice breaks when she tries to continue, “–I’m scared of us fracturing apart. I’m scared of…being alone.” 

As soon as she says the words, she feels her heart sink into the pit of her stomach. She can’t even bring herself to look at Booker, and instead continues to play with her loose jewelry. Even if she wasn’t in direct agreement with the verdict they had given him, it was still the verdict given, and she’d still chosen her side. God, she wishes she were driving right now, even if she’d be going eighty miles an hour over the speed limit again. 

“You will never be alone, Nile,” Booker finally says, his voice soft. 

“Even if…say tomorrow, Andy packs up her bags and says she’s going back to Europe, or she just vanishes into the night. Say that happens. What then?” Nile’s eyes skirt up to look at him, watching his movements.

His eyes are trained on the road. “I would stay.” 

“Even when there’s no reason to?”

“ _You_ are a reason to stay, Nile.” He shakes his head. “If it means keeping you from a hundred years of being alone, and you _want_ the company, that is more than enough reason to stay.” 

She finds herself chuckling quietly, even if it’s hollow, surprising herself. “I can’t cook worth a shit,” she admits. “In this hypothetical scenario, you’d be kinda screwed.” 

A faint smile seems to crack over his face as well. “Lucky for you, I can.” 

“Lucky me.” 

Booker drives them into the city with little issue, Nile giving him directions once they’re on the familiar streets. An ache fills her chest, seeing her city again, and it’s strange after so many years away. Her heart is heavy, filled with questions about the nuances of her old life. 

They take a route that directly passes the church Nile used to go to. She scans the people going inside, trying her best to see if anyone she recognizes is lingering outside. Unfortunately, she cannot watch for long enough to try. 

“Is that the place we’re going?” Booker asks, his voice startling her out of her trance.

“No! No–keep going straight,” she tells him, shaking her head. “Sorry.” 

“ _C’est d’accord._ ”

He doesn’t ask her about it, which she appreciates, though she’s also very aware that he has the brain to put two and two together. By the time they’re pulling into the parking garage closest to the church, they’re set to be fifteen minutes early, which is reassuring for Nile if nothing else. It gives them time to take a slow pace as they walk towards the old building. 

It’s familiar, even if this was not the church she went to. A pang rips through her heart at what fills her: she is home. Chicago will always be home, even if she’s begun to find new places and people to call her home as well. Nothing can take the title away from Chicago.

Booker’s hand touches the small of her back gently, a small nudge but in a way that he can stabilize her quickly if it was a bit too much. Undoubtedly, it’s because of the stupid shoes she’s wearing, but she was taught to wear her _Sunday Best_ to Mass, and that wasn’t about to change now. Nile very quickly realizes that the touch was because they have the walk sign, and she hurries into the street even if she slows down halfway across. Booker manages to always keep her pace, his hands in his pockets and his hair flopping in his face. 

She’s going to cut it for him, at this rate. 

They take seats in one of the back pews, Nile not wanting to risk being anywhere she could be noticed _just in case_. The service itself is perfectly normal, and just what Nile anticipated when it came to Mass. It gets her mind off of things for a bit and lets her fall into a routine that she had missed for the past several years, just from not having enough time. Yet, she can’t lie, when there’s a lull for communion, she finds herself thinking of Nicky and Quynh. 

She can shake the thoughts away by the time she is standing and leading Booker to take part in the sacrament. His constant presence behind her is almost comforting, in a strange way, even if it’s so strange to occasionally glance back and see what _must_ just be a figment from a very long dream about immortality in her home city–seeing a man who belongs in another country (on another _continent_ ) standing behind her with the faintest smile that says _it’s alright_.

Man, Nile can’t figure out whether she’s just thrown off by being back in the city, or if this is something different. 

When they leave the church, Nile is wrapping the coat tight around herself to keep the chill out. The first thing she realizes upon stepping out into the world is that she’s excruciatingly tired and rather hungry, and she barely strings a sentence together for Booker (in fact, she might just leave it at “breakfast”) before she’s walking up the street in the direction of a cafe she recalls going to in her high school days. 

Booker is smirking as he walks with her, but he keeps quiet. Introspection, perhaps. Or, alternatively, they both have a caffeine addiction and need coffee before they can try to speak to each other. 

The cafe Nile takes them to is more of a restaurant now, the tables and interior are far nicer than she remembers, but she is not one to complain. A table for two takes five minutes, and they’ve been seated in the middle of the restaurant. Booker is facing the door only because Nile doesn’t want to make eye contact with anyone that could recognize her by accident. Andy doesn’t believe in coincidences, and in all fairness Nile is skeptical of them, but that doesn’t mean that God wouldn’t play some sick joke on her.

Booker barely gets anything, keeping his breakfast light and simple. Nile opts for a sandwich from the lunch menu and a coffee. Perhaps the most amusing part of her morning is watching Booker try to order his coffee (he asks for a _café noisette_ , which is perhaps his first mistake), followed by the look of utter disappointment when he’s given a macchiato. He does not complain about it, unsurprisingly, but instead mumbles something about _inferior coffee_ while he sips at it. The statement gets a small laugh out of Nile.

They sit in silence otherwise, but nothing about it is awkward. In fact, Nile is oddly comfortable inhabiting the same space without feeling the need to fill the void with conversation. Occasionally, she may make a note about a person she sees as she watches the room, but Booker doesn’t seem to feel the need to make idle conversation either. Their waiter comes back with food and leaves just as quickly.

“I want to go to Langley,” Nile says abruptly, halfway through her sandwich. Booker’s eyes flick up to her, clearly surprised.

“Yeah?”

She nods. “I know Copley said not to, but I don’t know what else we can do at this point.” 

He leans back in the chair, looking as though he should have a pencil to twirl. Unfortunately, he doesn’t. “After Copley’s update, we’ll pitch it to him,” Booker says. “If he won’t help us, we go in on our own.” 

“He won’t help us,” Nile points out. “Not with Langley.” 

“We can still try–”

“Nile Freeman?!” 

Her blood runs cold, her heart rocketing into her throat and taking conscious effort to swallow it back down. Fuck, is she already shaking? Slowly, carefully, glances to Booker and shakes her head. His expression has contorted into equal mixes of panic and concern, though he’s sat up and his hand has moved to rest on the table. _Please, God, no…_

The owner of the voice comes into view, standing at the edge of the table. 

“I thought...I can’t believe it, Nile, you’re–”

“Here? Yeah. It’s good to see you, Kiera.” Nile cracks a small, awkward smile, looking up to the Mexican girl standing and staring at her. 

It’s been...well, shit, closer to a decade since Nile last saw this girl in person and _not_ over FaceTime calls or merely texting. Kiera doesn’t look a day over twenty five, but Kiera was also gifted with her mother’s everlasting youth and beauty. Warm brown skin, dark eyes and black hair that she’d chopped short.

“Nile, we went to your service...that was, like, six years ago–you shouldn’t _be_ here.” Kiera shakes her head, clearly growing somewhat distressed. “Conn? Conn, come over here.” 

_Oh, God._

Nile exchanges a look with Booker, who has merely kept himself quiet in his chair even if he’s leaning forward just a bit. From her left, Conn appears with a confused look on their face. 

“Holy fuck– _Nile_.” 

Conn has changed a bit, Nile recalls them having an unnatural hair color and less tattoos, alongside a different fashion sense and not needing glasses. They were always pale, looking like they haven’t seen the sun a single day in their life, but with the red hair, freckles, and piercing blue eyes, it works. 

“You haven’t aged a single day–how in god’s name do you keep yourself looking so good? Damn, it’s like you’re the same person from that picture in front of Danny’s. I think that was the last time _I_ saw you.”

“Don’t get me started on that,” Nile says with a little laugh. “It was good, I had a great time.” 

Kiera swats at Conn’s shoulder. “That’s not _it,_ she should be fucking dead. KIA, remember?” 

“Oh, oh fuck. You’re right–Nile, what the hell?”

Nile has no idea how to reply. She looks to Booker again, hoping for some sort of help, but he merely shakes his head slowly. Not that she blames him, his presence is probably going to only confuse the pair staring down at her.

“Hey, man. We’re Nile’s friends from high school. Who are you?” Conn asks, directed at Booker with an edge to their voice. It’s not shocking that Conn is incredibly wary of Booker, as they had never been the most trusting person, but Nile takes it upon herself to clear her throat.

“ _Sebastien_ is my friend. We met a couple years back, just outside of Paris,” Nile tells the two of them. “He’s been...one of my travel companions.” 

_God, that was worded awfully. Jesus, Nile, get it together, you’re making it sound like you’re fucking._

“You’re ignoring the part where you’re supposed to be dead,” Kiera says, crossing her arms. “Not to interrogate you on your first day back or anything, but you can’t just die for almost ten years and then come back like nothing happened.” 

“Closer to five years,” Conn mumbles.

“She’s not legally allowed to talk about it,” Booker finally says, the first time he’s spoken to them, and he’s _definitely_ playing up the accent that is usually not even present. Conn seems surprised at his voice. “Our work is highly secretive, I wouldn’t expect you to understand, but we are business associates now. The only reason we’ve come to Chicago is on strictly business, as we’ve been keeping away from it to avoid instances such as these, though this was unavoidable.” 

There it is. That charming _Sebastien le Livre_ smile that he flashes them to pair with his overly formal words. 

Kiera and Conn seem to buy the answer, their eyes getting big and collectively taking a step away from Booker. “Right, sorry, didn’t mean to...intrude,” Kiera mumbles. “It’s good to see you, Nile. We missed you...does your mom know you’re in town?”

“Oh, no, but…” Nile can’t bring herself to say the rest. _I don’t want her to know._

As much as Nile would love nothing more than to see her mom right now, it’s the last thing she’ll allow herself to do.

“Well...um, it was nice to see you again, then,” Kiera says, waving and wrapping her arm around Conn’s waist.

“Yeah, it was nice to see you too.” 

The pair vanishes from sight, and Nile glances back to Booker, opening her mouth to thank him but he beats her to speaking first. 

“Do I even want to ask about _Danny’s_?” he asks with a little grin. “Or can I assume it was typical high school shit?”

It gets a small laugh out of Nile, and some of the weight off her chest. “Danny used to date Kiera–they had a really nasty breakup, and he was a piece of shit, so we went to his house and gave him a piece of our mind while he and his parents were in Michigan on business. I think it was after their freshman year of college.” 

Booker laughs quietly into his coffee. 

“Thank you, for...the help, back there. I appreciate it, I don’t know what I would have told them,” Nile continues, staring directly into Booker. “You didn’t have to.” 

He shrugs. “You froze up, what was I supposed to do? Let you sit there?”

“Well, yeah.” 

“ _Non._ ” Booker flashes her a small piece of his smile, though it’s a genuine smile and not the trademark one he puts on to give to strangers. 

“They were probably more shocked by the fact I was with a white boy–let alone a _Frenchman,_ ” Nile admits, laughing quietly to herself. “You guys are lucky my family doesn’t know I’m alive. Do you know how hard you all would be interrogated?” 

“It puts the fear of God right back into me,” Booker tells her with a soft chuckle.

Nile smiles too. 

She is the one to pay for brunch, with the excuse of _you pay every time we go to a bar_ , leaving quickly with her head down and coat collar popped to avoid potential eye contact with Conn and Kiera. It’s a long walk back to the car, in which Nile keeps her nose buried in the coat against the biting cold wind that blasts through her bones. At one point, her eyebrows furrow and she produces a box of Marlboros from the interior pocket, offering it to Booker. He hadn’t pulled a cigarette once the entire morning, if part of it was her fault for wearing his coat, she definitely would feel bad.

He takes the box carefully, looking it over once and giving it a shake. There might only be one missing.

Booker throws it into the closest trash can.

Nile can’t help but be surprised, but she’s still smiling a little underneath the coat. Small steps forward are still steps in the right direction.

The car is freezing when she slips inside, back behind the wheel as she’s more convinced this time that she will be able to keep her cool. Booker is exhaling into his gloved hand and holding it to his face, his hair flopping into his eyes. He does a dramatic flip to get it out of the way. 

“I really want to cut your hair,” Nile finally grumbles as she starts up the car. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chicago time! i could've called up one of my friends who goes to school in chicago so i could put in more detail about _where_ they are, exactly, but admittedly we're both busy. so alas. here we are.
> 
> stay classy. a drill. you know.


	12. Expo/Sepulveda

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You don’t have to go,” he assures her gently. “If you don’t want to, or you’re uncomfortable, we run another con. It’s that easy.” 
> 
> Nile hesitates, taking a slow exhale before she speaks again. “Why do you keep calling it a con?”
> 
> “Because there’s no way we can get into this place without a little charisma.” Booker shakes his head, glancing back to his computer to check his email. “I rush ordered some contacts, they should be here next Monday. Those’ll help with the eye scan. Voice recognition, I’m working on a plan for. In fact, I have a plan. Might work for fingerprints too. Maybe...it could be big.” 
> 
> “Who in the hell are you even going to–no, how in the hell are you going to do this?” Nile asks, her eyebrows furrowing together.
> 
> -
> 
> Or, Booker Can Pull a Heist and He's Excited, Dammit

Booker has his sunglasses off and pistol out by the time Nile is pulling into the driveway of the house. There’s a strange car parked out front, one that’s far too nice to belong to any of them, and the first thing that’s running through his mind is simple, but gut-wrenching: _they found us._

“Should I grab the Uzi from the trunk, or try for Nicky’s sword?” Nile asks quietly as soon as the car is shut off, her eyes darting to meet Booker’s. 

Most days, the longsword lived next to the door. Unless Andy had moved it, there should still be easy access to it. 

“Try for the sword, opening the trunk will make too much noise?” Booker hesitates as he opens the car door. “Or do you want my Glock?”

“Keep the gun,” Nile says quietly, slipping from the car near silently. 

She’s still wrapped in his coat, but she’s taken off her shoes as she hustles her way to the front door. As he’s checking his magazine, slapping it back into his pistol, Nile is standing at the door with her ear pressed to it, waiting. His gun is aimed for the welcome mat he’s halfway on top of, and he waits for Nile’s signal.

Her back straightens, and she breathes a sigh of relief before she speaks. “That’s...that’s Joe’s laugh. Good God, it’s just Joe.” 

The pistol gets lowered, his breaths long and slow in an attempt to calm down his racing heart. Dismissing an adrenaline rush is not the easiest thing, but he puts the gun back in the waistband of his pants and adjusts his tie. Nile waits, seemingly analyzing his body language before she deems it appropriate to slink inside the house. He follows suit, shutting the door behind him.

Yet, the strange woman standing in the middle of the room is _not_ what he was expecting. She’s a bit older, probably in her fifties, and still had a bag slung over her shoulder.

“Nile, Book, there you are,” Joe says as soon as they closed the door. “I was wondering where you were.” 

“Went to Mass. In Chicago.” Nile shrugs. She begins to peel off the coat, and instead of passing it back to Booker as anticipated, she folds it over her arm and keeps hold of it. “I didn’t know when we’d see you again.” 

Joe shakes his head. “I’ve been on the hunt for a while now, but I’ve found a former Redthorn operative.”

A short bout of silence fills the room, Booker staring further at the woman to try and analyze her. She’s graying, but still has mousy brown hair and gray eyes that scan the room. Upon further examination of her face, she doesn’t seem to have many wrinkles, and in fact looks _younger_ than his first glance suggested. His new estimate is in the forties.

“You were…you were involved with Redthorn?” Nile asks warily.

The woman chuckles for a brief moment. “That’s one way to put it, I suppose. I retired two years ago.” 

“Also, her name is Harriet Buckley, in case you wanted to introduce yourself,” Andy butts in with a wry smile. She’s visibly holding Nicky’s longsword, apparently in the middle of maintenance. “Might be a good idea, considering she’s agreed to help us out.” 

“Right, right. I’m Nile, nice to meet you.” 

“Pleasure’s all mine, Nile. I’m Harriet, as Andy said.” A hand is extended, one which Nile shakes. Harriet continues, “I imagine this is everyone, then?”

“Everyone we’re going to get,” Andy tells her. 

“Can I get you anything? In case they didn’t already offer–coffee? Tea? I think we still have pastries as well,” Booker offers, deciding to quickly jump in on this. He hasn’t put on his host persona in a long while, but as he’s slipping out of his coat and blazer, it seems to be the best thing he can do.

Harriet slowly nods. “If you have coffee, who am I to say no?”

“Of course–have a seat, make yourself comfortable. Do you like lattes?”

She smiles, seemingly genuinely. “Yes.” 

Andy does not sit. Harriet takes a spot on the loveseat while Joe takes a nearby armchair, and Nile takes the other seat on the sofa with some hesitation. The voices carry while Booker slips into the kitchen to begin putting together a small plate of leftover pastries he’d made the night before. Honestly, it was a shock that Nile hadn’t heard him, or been woken up at any point in the night. 

It’s Nile who speaks first. “What...exactly did you do for them? I assume you were CIA.” 

“Sort of,” Harriet says simply. “I was an active agent in Geneva for some time, then an analyst, I moved to Redthorn when it was founded for sake of research. And...your friend found me because I was a surrogate for one of the children they tested on.” 

“And you were just _okay_ with what they were doing?”

“Nile–” Andy starts.

Harriet scoffs and shakes her head. “No, she’s right. I _was_ okay with what they were doing, I thought it was for the betterment of the world. Clearly, I know I was wrong now, but at the time.” 

“Why did you retire, then?” Joe asks, jumping in as well.

“I understood what we were doing was wrong,” Harriet answers. “I was...initially hesitant to come back to Chicago, at their request, but you really can’t say no to these people. My meeting is in a few days, but the basis I am here for was on the potential of aiding a surrogate in Zürich.” 

“...when? What kind of surrogate?”

Booker glances to the coffee maker and the small cup he’s pulled down. It hits him just a moment too late that he’s definitely going overboard with how nicely presented it’s going to be, but in all fairness, he doesn’t often get to present things in a nice way for strangers. Maybe it’s to help steady his fingers by giving them mundane, familiar tasks. 

Maybe when they settle down next, he’ll try out being a barista again.

He hesitates, though, glancing back into the living room when he realizes they’re still quiet. Joe’s shoulders have tensed up, and he’s playing with his rings while Nile has a vague look of guilt written across her face.

“I don’t know when, I haven’t been to my meeting yet. And they are beginning a new attempt to create immortals, but from everything I can tell, it’s only one this time,” Harriet finally answers. 

Finishing the latte, he slips out of the kitchen and sets down the tray of pastries on the coffee table. Nile makes eye contact with him once, though it’s an unreadable expression. All he can do is give her a small smile.

“I don’t mean to interrogate, I’m sorry. This is just important to us, I’m sure you understand,” she tells Harriet. 

“I understand, greatly.” Harriet cracks a faint smile. “That was part of the pitch that helped get me out here.” 

On Booker’s way back to the kitchen, where he _intends_ to begin putting together the coffee, he catches sight of Joe and takes a moment to _really_ look at him. He’s ragged and clearly exhausted, if not for the way he’s dressed (his shirt has _wrinkles_ –fucking wrinkles! What alternate timeline are they in that Joe thinks it’s okay to wear a shirt with _wrinkles_?) then the bags under his eyes, the hollow expression in them to match, and how heavy all of his limbs seem to be. Then again, after two weeks out in God-knows-where, maybe he looks better than anticipated. Booker gently touches Joe’s shoulder (physical contact is something he’s been working on for a while, now, and getting past thinking it’s scary), just to let him know that he’s there.

They make brief eye contact. Joe nods once, small. Booker keeps walking.

“And we are _immensely_ grateful that you have,” Andy says. “Anything you can help us with, we would appreciate.” 

Another bout of silence, this time until Booker comes back out with the latte and sets it on the coffee table in front of Harriet. He goes to stand with Andy, leaning on the wall. He realizes now that she has yet to put down the sword, and the fact that Harriet can focus with the sight of _Andromache_ with a sword looking vaguely menacing is a shock.

“Which one of you is the tech guy?” Harriet asks, rooting around in her purse after mumbling a thanks for the latte and taking two sips of it.

Andy’s grip on the hilt of the sword visibly tightens.

“That’s...me, I think,” Booker says, glancing at Andy once and waiting for the brief nod of confirmation before he looks back to Harriet. “Yes, me.” 

“Come here, then.” 

He’s hesitant in his steps over to her, but he stops in front of the woman and carefully offers his hand, palm upwards when she holds out a closed hand. It’s set in the center of his hand and he slowly steps away to look at it.

It’s a small flash drive, it appears.

“That should give you everything you need, access included if it comes down to it. I’d be wary of accessing the databases though, it may result in some…not so pleasant things coming back to you before you can get out,” Harriet continues, giving him a faint smile. 

Booker is staring at the flash drive like he’s just been given the Holy Grail. He nods, mumbling a quiet _merci beaucoup_ and backing off to the desk in the corner of the room. Is it technically rude? Definitely. Is he going to see if this is a legit chance to fix all of their problems anyways? _Yes._

He tunes out the rest of the conversation and sits at the desk. One of them can update him later, right now his heart is pounding in his throat as he finds himself _praying_ that this is it. He’s greeted with the sight of folders upon folders of files as soon as the drive is accepted, and he just has to click on one of them and do some light reading and...it’s there. _It’s all there._ He’s opened up a lab report from July 14th, and as he scrolls through, the detail is all there. Everything.

He tries another file from the same folder–this one is a lab report from October 27th. More details, notes from the doctor, images… December 6th is the most recent one, and Booker winces at the sight of the image. He rakes his fingers through his hair, his eyes narrowing as he zooms in, just to be sure…

Sure enough, he’s quickly realized, Nicky’s ribs are visible, but...who’s that next to him?

Booker’s eyes widen when he goes down the page to part _two_ of the lab report– _Quynh._

He shuts the laptop, pushing it back and rubbing his face. _It’s all there. Everything’s there. It’s fucking there._ In perfect honesty, the lump in Booker’s throat could come around and get him to perhaps shed a tear out of pure _relief_ if nothing else. 

Booker stands and thanks Harriet again as she’s leaving. He needs a second to catch his breath, which means getting a pastry and getting to the desk to relax. Andy, Joe, and Nile are watching out the window, and Booker observing them as he finishes the little muffin-shaped brioche.

“Can we trust her?” Andy asks quietly, her face stiff as stone. “Or do we think she’s just set us up and is about to sell us out?”

Joe shakes his head. “For her sake, I hope we can trust her. If we can’t? I...don’t know what I’m going to do.”

Andy nods. “I trust you, Joe.” 

“Might want to put down the sword before the neighbors see you,” he mumbles while glancing back to Andy with a little teasing smile.

She grins, throwing her arms around him. “I missed you.”

“I missed you too, Boss. I’m sorry I was gone for so long.” 

Oh yeah, time to get to work before that sappy shit gets thrown at him too. Booker is opening the computer again, gluing himself to the screen. He does not leave the chair for hours. At one point, Nile puts a glass of water down next to him, but it takes three hours for him to even touch it. Part of what he’s doing is committing the important files to memory–dates, people, procedures, interrogations. Nearly six months, and he was so goddamn close…

Joe is pacing. Every now and then he steps on a floorboard that creaks, and every time it makes Booker want to throw something. Andy is doing maintenance on the sword, the sounds of her sharpening it serving as decent white noise when she gets to it. Perhaps the best white noise turns out to be Nile seemingly stress-baking in the kitchen. It sounds like bread from the occasional _thwunk_ and _thmack_ of what is more than likely dough.

If he started at two, it’s easily several hours past dark before Booker finally pushes the chair away from the desk and lets his shoulders relax. After an estimated eight hours, he settles on, poring over notes and files and so much information his head is swimming, he finds the schedule.

When he finds his voice, he’s surprised to find how _relieved_ he sounds. “Oh, thank God,” he finds himself saying before he can help it. He can feel bullets being stared into his back. “I have a schedule of testing, including sites and personnel, _with_ shipping labels and tracking information.” 

He pauses, rubbing his face and finally taking a sip from the water.

“Nicky and Quynh will be in Chicago in a week, for a week, and then they’re being shipped overseas to Europe–” a pause, with almost an unbelieving half-laugh, “–For once, we’re a step ahead of them. Give me two days, and I’ll have printables, and we’re going to start planning.” 

—

Booker slaps down the blueprints, unfurling the page and setting down various things to keep the corners in place. 

“ _This_ is where we are going,” he says, setting down a spray bottle and a cloth. Thank God he paid the extra money to laminate these. “Nicky is being held here–” pause to draw a small x, “–on the northeast side of the tower. This lab is above ground, and this particular research division of Redthorn is on the fourteenth floor.” 

“So we need to climb,” Andy says. She is standing the closest to Booker, leaning over the layout. “That won’t be fun.” 

“No, it won’t be. Three different elevators go up to this floor–here, here and... _here_. One of them is a quote-unquote _service elevator_ , meant for transporting people and things up to the lab,” Booker continues. “But, it is also the most heavily monitored location in the entire building. However, I can also say that this? This random blank cube next to the stairwell? Is a holding cell, and when Nicky is _not_ getting split open on the table, he’s here.” 

“Is that good or bad?”

“Considering it’s next to the stairwell? Good. Though, when we consider the fingerprint scanner to unlock it, the vocal recognition to open the door, and the ID we need in order to even _get_ into the lab, things change.” 

Nile is shaking her head when Booker looks up. “You really know your shit,” she says, “got it all quick, too.” 

“Heists are his specialty,” Joe muses. “Have been since before we met him.”

Booker winks at Nile before he draws a new circle. “We can get in from _here_ with no issue, as long as we have an ID. Now, my miniature printer comes in later today, and if all goes well, I should be able to snag the badge off at one of the downtown bars. We play our cards right, we have Nicky out by Wednesday.” 

“So what’s the con?” Andy asks, her lips twisted into a wry smirk. “What’s your plan?”

“Office Christmas Party–it sounds stupid, yeah, I know. But.” Booker slides his phone over to Andy, lingering on a screenshot. “We just have to conveniently make this poor son of a bitch come across one of us to be his date–he’s paying premium for a dating site, found because I have his bank information, asking for a Christmas Party date in his bio.”

“How many people do you have bank information for?” Andy asks with a small chuckle, zooming in on the picture.

“Four of them. Wish it was more.” Booker sighs. “We use the Christmas Party to buzz in the rest of us–we can’t get into this building without being buzzed in, unless we have a badge, which is going to be hell to get. However, there is a slight problem, which while it’s the most straightforward of the plans, it is my least favorite.” 

Andy locks eyes with Booker. “I think I know where you’re going with this.” 

“They know about all of us. Except…” 

“Me. God damn it,” Nile mumbles, turning away from the table and facing the window. 

Booker bites his lip, watching her as he stays quiet. There’s nothing for him to say, and he can’t lie, he feels awful even _thinking_ about asking her to do this. Which is why he’s come up with several backup plans, even if that is the easiest way to initiate the plan.

“Who’s the guy?” she finally asks, turning to look between them. “If I decide to go through with this.” 

It’s not difficult to pull up the profile on the tablet, pushing it over to Nile. Her face contorts quickly, her nose scrunching up as she shakes her head.

“That’s fuckin’ _Patrick_. From New York! No way in hell, of all people–”

“You don’t have to go,” he assures her gently. “If you don’t want to, or you’re uncomfortable, we run another con. It’s that easy.” 

Nile hesitates, taking a slow exhale before she speaks again. “Why do you keep calling it a con?”

“Because there’s no way we can get into this place without a _little_ charisma.” Booker shakes his head, glancing back to his computer to check his email. “I rush ordered some contacts, they should be here next Monday. Those’ll help with the eye scan. Voice recognition, I’m working on a plan for. In fact, I have a plan. Might work for fingerprints too. Maybe...it could be big.” 

“Who in the hell are you even going to–no, _how_ in the hell are you going to do this?” Nile asks, her eyebrows furrowing together.

Booker’s chest aches at the thought, though he will never admit it. _It’s not my job to comfort lonely men, but..._ “I have a plan,” he says. “Ninety percent of a plan, but it will be ready by the time I need to use it.” 

_Whatever works._

—

The bar, _Forty Thieves_ , is a comfortable space that Booker finds himself inhabiting all too easily on a Monday night. He’s seen pictures, he’s seen videos. He spent the past day and a half committing every minor detail about this guy to memory, and it has done what he hoped it would.

Hearing his voice from across the bar is like hearing an air raid siren, and every muscle in Booker’s body is telling him to _run_ and run fast. 

This is not the same doctor that tore Booker apart. No, this is the one that he only ever saw a handful of times because he didn’t want to go out to France. There’s a lot riding on whether or not he can pull this off–hell, Booker _shaved_ for this. He hasn’t tried to pull the clean-shaven with a fresh haircut (and styled!) look for decades now. If he’s telling the truth, he feels like a babyface from the 1950s, and definitely looks like he’s from the wrong decade, but he slides into an open seat next to the other black suits. He’s next to the voice that grates like nails on a chalkboard, but Booker orders himself a drink and leans back in the seat.

He recognizes none of the agents, but the doctor? Plain as day. If Booker didn’t know about all the atrocities he’d committed, the doctor could almost be an attractive man. _Almost_. Booker shifts his position to open himself up a bit more as he faces the doctor, tugging over the glass with a quiet _thank you_ in his best American accent. 

Now, he merely waits to see if the doctor takes the bait.

“Excuse me, sir, but are you from around here?” he asks after a long moment.

Booker’s gaze slowly rakes over the bar and meets the doctor’s eyes. “I’m from California,” he tells him. “Are you from Chicago?”

“No, no. I’m from New York City, I’m here on business...I’m so sorry, you just look so familiar.” 

He forces out a chuckle that manages to sound normal by some miracle. “I get that a lot. Might be an actor I resemble.” 

“Maybe that’s it.” The doctor pauses, as if deliberating his next words very carefully. 

Booker gives him the classic _Sebastien le Livre_ smile, a thing that’s full of charm. 

“I’m Hank. Hank Curtis,” the doctor introduces after taking another drink. 

“Seb Verne. You can call me Seby, if you like.” Booker winks, something that would usually be a ballsy move, except he knows too much about this guy. “So, business? What do you do?”

“I’m a doctor,” Hank tells him with a wry smile. “Right now, I’m moving around a lot, but I’m going to _Switzerland_ in a week.” 

“Switzerland?” 

“I know.” Hank chuckles, shaking his head. He’s a well-built man, clearly someone who still finds time to get in the daily workout. Dark, cropped hair. Glasses to cover dark eyes–dark enough to be almost black. “I’ve never been, but I hear it’s lovely. If I get any off time, which I’m currently doubting, I’d love to go ski.” 

“I went to Switzerland once–when I graduated college, with some of my friends, we did a trip across Europe. You’ll love it,” Booker says with a quick nod and a smile.

“Where did you go to school?”

“UCLA.” 

“No shit, that’s a phenomenal school. What did you study?”

Booker chuckles, shaking his head. “You’ll make fun of me, you’re a doctor.” 

“I’m nice, I promise,” Hank assures him, sipping at his drink with a raised eyebrow. He’s completely turned away from his associates now. “You can tell me–swear I won’t tell a soul.” 

“English. I have a PhD, but that’s not from UCLA. The Europe trip was with my friends after my bachelor’s.” Booker chuckles, giving his glass a swirl.

“What was your trip like?”

Hank seems genuinely curious about Booker’s stories. Some of them are real, most of them are fake, but he’s always been a natural storyteller. It takes less than an hour for him to realize that he has Hank reeled in–hook, line and sinker–which means he can start putting on more moves. With the other operatives so close by, Booker knows better than to try and steal from the bag or make a lift, which means getting Hank alone. 

It’s subtle at first. Hank is drinking at the rate Booker usually would (for once, Booker is _not_ throwing back drinks like they’re candy), which makes things easier. He starts with leaning forward, getting more into his space. Then it’s leaning back, turning more of his body to face the doctor, draping an arm loosely near the back of his chair. It continues on as playing with a piece of the chair.

The next move made to get closer comes from the doctor, and Booker finds himself internally grinning. A soft _what do you say we get out of here_ only satisfied him more. Hank pays for both tabs with a company card, excusing himself from the trio of agents left over–Cass, Julian, and Patrick are the names dropped, and they wave. None of them look at Booker twice as he leaves with Hank, accompanying the doctor to a hotel that’s down the street.

Hank smokes, surprisingly. Booker turns down a cigarette when offered.

They talk suggestively, but it’s not notable. Booker hardly can focus on the conversation once he realizes that they’ve successfully just...charisma-ed the _shit_ out of each other. For being such a scumbag, Hank is very good at being charming, making Booker temporarily forget everything bad he already knew. The realization is not sitting well.

Every glance over at Hank is souring this experience more and more. Sometimes, if he looks at the wrong time, the light from a neon sign or a stoplight will bathe Hank in red, and it’s all too difficult not to think of the doctor’s hands coated in Nicky’s blood. 

It’s a nice hotel that they go into. Very nice. The elevator is empty, and their destination is the seventeenth floor, which means they have time. Hank has Booker against the wall, pulling him gently down by his tie (the doctor is easily a few inches shorter than Booker) and kissing him softly. It’s almost alarming, how tender it is, and Booker reciprocates because he knows he _has_ to. 

The hotel room Hank leads them into is dark, and when Booker throws down his leather briefcase he already feels Hank on him. Hands gingerly wrapping around him from behind, delicate in the way they latch onto his torso and play with the buttons. Booker loosens his tie, turning and pinning Hank to the wall. The doctor seems to enjoy it, pressing soft kisses up Booker’s jaw and ripping open his shirt within moments. Clearly, he’s an expert. 

_Jesus Christ, I really am doing this, aren’t I?_

It’s rough and dirty. Booker has not had sex in years, though coincidentally his last partner was also a man. He has never been above using sex to get the job done–whatever _works_ is what he does, and if that means fucking the brains out of a CIA operative, then he does it. They break once for drinks (more whiskey), Booker careful to differentiate their glasses. He’s sure to use glass.

He’s asleep, soundly, when Booker slips out of bed and digs through his belongings. The ID and badge are close to the top, and they are all too easy to make copies of in the bathroom while Booker fumbles around in his discarded coat for his box of cigarettes. Nothing. 

The sex wasn’t bad, it felt...nice, he supposes, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t feel fucking _filthy_ for it. 

Booker puts the fakes back into Hank’s wallet, restoring them to be as perfect as possible before he’s slipping the real ID and badge into the outer pocket of his briefcase. The now-empty glass that Hank had drunk the whiskey from goes in a plastic ziploc, gingerly being placed in the main compartment of the leather briefcase. The sheets audibly twist, and Booker finds himself freezing with his bag half shut.

“Is...everything alright?” Hank asks, a groggy voice from the bed. He’s sat up.

“Just looking for my cigarettes,” Booker tells him, standing slowly. “I...guess I didn’t bring any with me.” 

“I have some in my bag, I’ll get ‘em for you.” 

Booker’s heart is in his throat as he watches Hank slide out of bed and fumble around his bag, eventually producing a half-empty box of Marlboros. At least he’s got the good shit. 

“Have as many as you like, I’m getting a new box before I go into work tomorrow,” Hank tells him quietly, kissing Booker’s jaw as he sets the box into his palm.

_If it were anyone else, it wouldn’t be so awful. Arguably, he would be considered a good lover if he wasn’t such a scumbag._

Slipping into his heavy coat, Booker steps out onto the balcony to light himself a cigarette and stare out into the Chicago night. It’s cold, very much so, but he’d always been one to brave the cold easily. After nearly freezing to death, nothing seems bad, even if it’s mildly annoying. The ash that fills his lungs helps warm him up, however, as he rubs his face and rests his elbows on the balcony railing.

He did it, though. They have what they need, they can proceed with the job. 

Booker comes back inside once his cigarette is gone, though he leaves the box on the nightstand and his coat on the floor when he crawls back into bed. They snuggle, though Booker does not sleep. He knows he’ll be able to nap when he’s back at the safehouse, actually safe and with people he loves and trusts. It makes him feel marginally better.

He slips out later in the morning, once the sun has come up and it’s acceptable to put his clothes back on and shoulder his bag. Hank is barely awake to say goodbye, Booker claiming he has a meeting to attend and cannot stay longer, and he leaves. Just like that.

The cold air stings the back of his throat when he breathes, but Booker doesn’t care. It’s a way to wipe clean, though he won’t lie, as soon as he gets back, he is planning on taking a long, hot shower. The car is parked a couple blocks away, and once he’s sat himself inside, he’s pulling out the badge and ID, glancing inside the bag to make sure he still has the glass with the fingerprints.

Everything is present. 

Booker exhales slowly, slipping everything back into its respectful place before he starts up the car and begins driving.

He has an hour or so to himself, just the purr of the engine and the hum of the radio. Well, it’s not radio, it’s one of his CDs. As he drives out into the open road, Booker finds himself staring blankly ahead as if it were an open flame. When he’s stopped at a light, he finds himself stopping the music and checking his watch. 

It’s Tuesday, and this is usually when he _should_ be getting up for Sandra.

He takes the long way home, slowing down as he dials her number at _10:00_ on the dot. She picks up, giving her typical greeting that gets Booker to bite his tongue. He apologizes, says that he’s driving, but didn’t want to miss the session. Of course, it’s alright, she does not mind. 

By the time he’s pulling into the driveway, he has fifteen minutes left to still speak to her, so he lingers in the car and lets his fingers absently play with the strap of his briefcase. To an extent, he unloads his current feelings, and she doesn’t hang up the phone until she’s talked him down from his tree. It’s ten minutes over the usual time, but she promises that it’s alright.

Booker climbs out of the car and stumbles inside the house, the smell of breakfast hitting him as soon as he’s through the door. Three pairs of eyes land on him once the door is shut, and he merely nods.

“I’ve got it,” he says, gently setting down the briefcase. “It’s all acquired. I’m...going to take a shower.” 

“Are you alright?” Andy asks, a clear look of concern on her face. 

“Never better.” Booker flashes a smile to her as he slips into the bedroom to pull out fresh clothes.

The shower is refreshing to an extent, but it could be better. He still can’t completely scrub the grime from his pores, and even if all the gel is out of his hair, if he isn’t careful, he can still feel fingers running through it that are not his own. 

Booker stares at himself in the foggy mirror as he’s climbing out, towel wrapped around his waist. He _looks_ normal, he feels awful. 

New clothes get put on before he’s completely dry, and pokes his head into the kitchen to quickly tell the trio that he’s going to try to sleep. They can wake him up in a couple hours if they need, though, he adds. Joe stares right through him, as if he could read every movement Booker had pulled last night, as if he could see into Booker’s psyche like it was a lava flow down Mount Yaanek–something so _painfully obvious_ that it would take a fool to not notice. At least, when Joe looks into his soul, it feels like that. Booker is well aware the average person isn’t used to reading body language like he is. 

Booker curls up in bed, leaving his door open and his gun next to his pillow. 

Hank Curtis goes in the folder of _One Night Stands_ and the folder is shelved. 

If he’s lucky, he’ll never think about it again.

It’s Andy who has come into the room to wake Booker up. The sun is still up, which is reassuring, and he slowly pushes himself up onto his elbows as he regards her. She’s still in pajamas, but Booker realizes very quickly that she’s shut the door.

“Whose life are we ruining?” she asks quietly. “And what did you do to get all of that?”

“Hank Curtis. The founder of Redthorn and Nicky’s doctor. Well...the one dissecting him besides Kozak.” Booker flops back down on the bed, raking his fingers through his hair. “He barely recognized me, thank God. I’m lucky I got out of there when I did, any longer and I would be risking...everything.” 

“You knew him? Book...you should have _told_ us, we could have figured out another way, someone else could have gone.” 

He shakes his head. “I only somewhat know him. He came to see me a few times while I was at the testing facility, but my primary tormentor was Jean-Baptiste Bouchard. He relocated to Zürich when Kozak got there, but that’s…” Booker sighs quietly, trying to find something inanimate to focus on. “Besides, as much as I would love to beat up American feds, they’d know who we were and we could have scared them off. I’m not confident enough to try and lift it off of them, just because there’s so much room for error. Besides, I would never ask anyone else to do what I did.” 

“Still…” Andy sighs, looking down at the floor. “You didn’t have to fuck the guy.” 

“That obvious, hm?”

“Your shoulders are looser even if everything else is tight.” 

“I didn’t _want_ to, but at the same time I _did_ want to, you know?” He shakes his head. “I wanted to be anywhere but that room, but I also wanted to be in there because I knew it would get me what I wanted. It’s just so conflicting, and I hate that I did it now, but it was for the right reasons.” 

Andy really looks at him. She’s capable of staring directly through his soul too, if she tries, but she seems to be going easy on it today. “Don’t make me spell it out for you.” 

“Spell out what?”

“Oh, shit. You really don’t know, do you?”

“Don’t know _what_?” Booker’s eyes narrow slightly, though it’s from confusion and not anger. He genuinely can say he has no idea what she’s onto, and every thought that runs through his mind as a possible answer just doesn’t make enough sense.

“It obviously felt wrong because you know what the sleazebag is doing to Nicky,” Andy says. “But more than that? You think there’s more reasons it felt wrong, don’t you?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Andy.” Now he _does_ know exactly what she’s talking about, and what she’s getting at. “I don’t wanna talk about the shitbag anymore. Half of my call with Sandra was about him–fuck, I accidentally kept her ten minutes over because of it.” 

She nods, her position shifting. “I’m sorry. I get it, though. But...Joe made muffins,” Andy says, clearly forcing the little smile. “If you want some. They’re still on the counter. You know how he gets when he’s anxious.” 

“Don’t blame him.” Booker pushes himself to fully sit up. “I’ve been so busy planning everything that I’ve been able to...ignore the anxiety. But at least it’s paid off.” 

Andy stands, stretching herself out. “We move in tomorrow night?”

“Yes. And...Andy?”

“What’s up?”

The door opens, Booker wincing inwardly at the sight of Joe poking his head in. Well, there went all his confidence to try and talk to her about Quynh, just sucked from his lungs.

“Oh, you’re awake,” he says. “Muffins are on the counter. Just letting you know I’m taking a shower, I won’t be more than twenty.” 

Andy tells him, quickly, “Sounds good. Thank you.” 

She’s walking to the door when Booker’s vocal chords manage to start working again. “Quynh’s being tortured with Nicky,” he says, well aware that his voice does _not_ sound stable. Andy freezes in place like she’s a statue. “Same experiments. Same...almost everything.”

“...how long have you known?”

“Not long.” _A lie._ He hadn’t had the heart to tell her, even now it was on thin ice.

Andy slowly nods, her hand closing around the doorframe and tightening enough to make her knuckles turn white. Immediately, Booker gets the urge to apologize, but he shoves the words back down his throat. _Not everything requires an apology, this isn’t my fault...is it my fault? Maybe I should apologize. No, I don’t need to. But what if…_

“You know this changes the plan,” Andy says quietly. “But we’re getting Quynh back too. So help me, we are getting her back.” 

“Of course, boss.” 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aha i'm beginning to plan a move and that's stressful as shit. so you know what i do instead? write a couple thousand words.
> 
> bless the beta readers for making sure it's legible.
> 
> stay dirty. the drill. thanks for reading!


	13. Harold Washington Library-State/Van Buren

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Someday, you’ll thank me for this,” Kozak says quietly as she begins to hook Nicky up to the machines. A long pause, where she hesitates on her words before she speaks them. “You see me as the bad guy, don’t you?”
> 
> Nicky looks at her expectantly, waiting for her to continue without giving an answer.
> 
> She chuckles. “Right. And you don’t consider why any of us are doing what we do, hm? Sure, we have our fun when we can, but the amount of death we are looking to prevent is...truly remarkable. Lucrative for America, as well, which is not my favorite piece to the puzzle, but I will take what I can get.” 
> 
> “I’ve been the bad guy before,” Nicky says quietly, in English, staring directly into Kozak. “I would not be surprised when death comes for you as it came for me. You think you are friends with Death until she turns and shoots you herself.” 
> 
> -
> 
> Or, Freedom is in Sight for Nicky and Quynh

Hank Curtis does not have a normal life. Well, he _used to_ , until nearly six months ago when he had to uproot himself from his cushy New York life and live long-term rental to long-term rental while he studies and studies and hopes for real results. Kozak has been a great help in getting results, though even now it’s taken all this time to _hope_ for something that will work.

The problem is that the Italian bastard’s DNA is normal. There’s nothing special at all about him, except the fact they can kill him and he comes back to life. It used to be thirty seconds, but after six months…sometimes, Hank is afraid he’s actually killed the son of a bitch, because when he really inflicts death in its most brutal form...once it took thirty _minutes_ for him to come back around.

Kozak has a serum that she keeps saying _could_ work, but Hank can’t bring himself to find a test subject yet. Once they’re out of Chicago, he plans to do his best to find someone, but that gives him a week of vague normalcy first to enjoy his last tastes of America. 

His wife stayed in DC, but she’s promised to meet him in Geneva when they land. Hank often finds he doesn’t think about her anymore–not when so much of his life is consumed by lab work and research and drinking when the former goes wrong. 

He makes it a goal to find the best bar in every city he stays in. Sometimes, he goes out with his coworkers, sometimes he is alone–though by the end of the night, he’s never _really_ alone. With the exception of their little stint at Georgetown, and that period of time in which he would go straight home to his wife and do nothing else, he can say pretty confidently that he’s found a good mix of lovers. Most of the time, it’s a one-off thing. However, in Irvine, he spent several weeks with a girl who was a freshman at UCI that he got rather close to. That was definitely the longest he spent with one partner.

Since he’ll only be in Chicago for a week, he is not worried. Though this will be his last chance to see more people in bed than his wife for the next year, so Hank is determined to make it count. Forty Thieves is a pleasant bar–he’s been to the sister location once before–and he’s at peace with his alcohol and the few coworkers he came with. They are nice people and all, even if the extent of what exactly Hank _does_ is still a mystery to them. 

_Science experiments? Autopsies? Interrogations? Torture?_

None of the above would be false, though they weren’t the full truth either. 

Forty Thieves seemed like a bust after the first hour and a half that Hank was there. Nobody there seemed to be particularly up his alley in terms of _attractive_ that he wanted to fuck (or get fucked _by_ ), which was half of what he was hoping to find while here. To think he was giving up hope when _he_ slid in next to him.

Tall. Taller than Hank, though not by much. Blond, slicked back hair and clean-shaven, a striking profile and a good fashion sense. Pairing the turtleneck with the dark pants and a heavy coat would fit sensibly in the Chicago December, but it also shows off the man’s clear muscles. Hank is very good at being subtle when he’s looking, and he was unashamed to admit he was staring at what was obviously a very built chest before distracting himself with something else.

Yet, there’s something Hank can’t quite put his finger on. This man looks vaguely familiar–if he could hear his voice, maybe he could pinpoint _where_ exactly it’s from. A perfect excuse to get this gorgeous man next to him to _speak._

“Excuse me, sir,” he finally says, deciding to bridge the gap between them. “But are you from around here?”

There’s a pause from the man, a faint smile that makes his lips turn upwards in a pleasant manner. “I’m from California… Are you from Chicago?” he answers (and asks) with a surprisingly low-toned voice that manages to still be perfectly warm. The accent is definitely American, maybe not Californian, but definitely American.

Hank elects to believe that he, in fact, has never seen this man before in his life. And part of him is perfectly okay with that, even if he’s suddenly disappointed that he’ll only be in Chicago for a week. However, that means that he has to make these moments count and hook this man in so that Hank can at least get him into bed _once_ and die happy. 

He goes by Seb or Seby, whichever Hank prefers. All Hank calls him is _Gorgeous_ (once he’s sure they’re flirting, at least). 

The last time Hank put this much effort into being charming was when he was trying to get with his wife for the first time. At least it pays off, because Seb is more than willing to leave with him and go back to Hank’s hotel.

They fuck.

And Hank can’t lie, it’s one of the best fucks he’s had in a long time. Arguably his life, but that’s a pretty tall statement that he just isn’t sure is true. 

Seb leaves him in the morning with a phone number left in writing on a napkin, Hank having little more than a name and bruises from bite marks on his neck to remember him by. Hank decides against covering them up when he goes into the lab. It’s a short walk back to the building, he doesn’t need to hop on any train or get in a car, which is reassuring. Going around the front, he looks up to the sun in the morning light and finds himself looking away. Bright light? Not great at the moment.

He presses his badge to the reader against the door, his eyebrows furrowing together when it does not give him the affirming beep. 

Another press. Another. Nothing.

He settles for pressing the button, sighing quietly. “Suzie? I think my wallet got too close to a magnet again, my badge isn’t working.”

The reply is crackling, but still audible as the light beeps green. “ _I see you, Hank. No worries. Drop it off with me and I’ll get it replaced before you leave tonight._ ”

“Thank you.” 

He drops the badge off with her, though also he finds that swiping into the briefing room is proving to be difficult. He blows on his card once, tries slowing down and shifting it. Flipping it over, he figures the bar may have been scratched, but he’s glad he made it in earlier than originally anticipated. Knocking on the door, Hank sighs when he has to look up to his boss and explain the ID not working. 

Supposedly, a new one will be printed and brought up to him after the meeting, but he’s allowed to sit in one of the chairs and pull out a legal pad to take notes on.

Hank is not listening to most of the conversation–he’s still thinking of last night. It’s been a _long_ time since he’s had sex that good, especially with a partner he’d met that night. Maybe he’ll have to try and call that number he was given... Maybe Seb wants to go back to Europe? Hank is not ashamed to admit that he would pay for that man’s flight if it meant spending more time with him.

Someone they want to potentially intercept may have been spotted in the city, that’s what Hank gathers from the brief blips he overhears and manages to scribble down. _Sebastien le Livre. AKA Booker. Has been in custody before, in Redthorn’s French testing facility. Primarily operated on by Jean-Bap. Bouchard. Spotted in Chicago last week. Last known image–_

Hank is staring at the screen, blinking once. Twice. 

He swallows hard.

No fucking way.

“Do we have any images of that man without facial hair?” Hank asks, sitting upright all too quickly and taking a drink from his shitty office coffee. “Maybe with his hair combed back?”

“None, why?” his boss asks, eyebrows furrowing together. “This is the only image we have.” 

Hank shuts his mouth, and suddenly remembers to feel self-conscious about the hickeys on his neck. At least they’ll be gone before he sees his wife again–this is why he never gives her his schedule. Still, he finds himself weighing his options carefully: admit to meeting this guy and having sex with him even when he should have recognized him as a potential target, or pretend like nothing happened and get shot down with they inevitably find out he withheld information? Easy choice.

“It’s the same eyes, same nose, same fucking _jaw_. I think he was at Forty Thieves last night.” 

That’s disappointing news, indeed.

Then again...

—

Nicky often wonders if his family has grown used to him not being around. If it’s easier to act as though he’s dead and buried six feet under instead of missing. Will his body give out before they know what happened? What if he doesn’t get to say goodbye? What if his last words to Joe were admitting to being terrified–what if the last time he saw Andy was when she offered him company on the roof and he turned her down? What if he never gets to cook with Nile again, singing shitty pop music from the 80s with her? What if he spent his last years with Booker being angry with him? For good reason, but that’s still not how he wants his last memories with Booker to be painted.

He never poses these questions to Quynh; they linger in his head and beg to be released even if they never are. Holding everything inside is something Nicky is good at. 

Quynh fell asleep in his lap a while ago in her usual position–head on his thigh, forehead pressed against his stomach. Just for a nap, he can guess. She relaxed after her nightly torture as the sun was coming up, and though it’s gotten a bit darker, it’s presumably from clouds. Nicky knows it’s cold out, it’s that time of year, but that also means darker days and earlier nights.

Shutting his eyes, Nicky lets his head rest back on the stone. It’s cold, his back is stiff and he’s uncomfortable in this position, but he’s not about to move Quynh. He’s gotten good at falling asleep about anywhere, undoubtedly from the fatigue overtaking his body, and finds that he may be beginning to get close to walking the line of sleep. 

The familiar sound of the door unlocking snaps him back to reality, and his head jerks back up to look around the room. Inadvertently, he finds himself with an arm draping protectively over Quynh. Not that she would need it–three months and she hasn’t lost the fire to fight back each and every time. 

Nicky wishes he could say the same.

They come for him, though. Quynh is awoken and shoved to the side, and he does his best to wrangle them away. At best, he gets one about halfway into a chokehold before he’s yanked away and thrown into the stone wall. He _hears_ it before he feels it, the smack of his head and the small crack against the rock. It hurts like hell as he’s pulled back to his feet and dragged out. By the time he’s being forced onto the table, the wound has yet to heal, and he spends his time counting the seconds until the pain is gone from the back of his head. 

_238._

He can’t do the math to figure how many minutes it is. Under five, he thinks, though that’s not exactly reassuring. 

It is not Hank Curtis who enters the room first, though he and Kozak both stand at the edge of Nicky’s line of sight. Who approaches is an almost unfamiliar man– _almost._ It clicks a second too late, and Nicky is suddenly very glad that they have yet to hook him up to the machines that tell them his heart rate. 

_Patrick_. Joe helped him once, and though Nicky hadn’t been there for it, he’d encountered him twice before they went their separate ways. 

“Nicolò,” he begins, pulling a page from his blazer. It’s folded, and he takes his time to undo the motion. “I have a few questions to ask of you, if you would not mind giving me a few answers.” 

“ _Si_?”

The page is completely unfolded and _Booker_ is on it. Seemingly in the same position Nicky is in now, though perhaps Booker looks a little worse than Nicky does.

Patrick continues, “Who is this? What do you know about him, and what is he planning?”

He can’t help the confused expression that crosses over his face. 

“We believe he’s in Chicago now, but alone. Why would he be here?”

At least he’s not being tortured for this, that does make Nicky feel marginally better. “ _Assuming I know anything about that traitorous son of a bitch now, which I don’t, all I can tell you is that we split apart from him after the…eh, incident at Merrick’s. I imagine it’s pure coincidence that he’s here, if he’s even here since your agent merely thinks and does not know, considering his only job right now is to be avoiding us,_ ” he answers in Italian, only partially a lie. Nicky keeps his voice level to the best of his ability. It’s hard, but he can do it, but there’s only one thought continuously going through his head.

_They’re here._

Nicky keeps his chin up, eyeing Patrick and clenching his jaw before he continues, but switches to a language he knows Patrick will understand: French. “ _It’s nice to see you again, Patrick. I hope your daughter is doing well_ ,” he mumbles, a cold and hard tone overtaking his voice. 

The agent is a smart man, and while the recognition at the words crosses his face, he makes no sound or motion to reply. 

“Do we have a translation?” Patrick asks, turning to glance beyond Kozak and Curtis, presumably to more men who are standing at the door. “Alright, thank you. _Grazie, Nicolò_.” 

Though all Nicky wants to do is tell him to _go to hell_ , he abstains. 

The agent leaves, giving Nicky time alone with his thoughts for a brief minute. _Booker is here._ There’s something in the bottom of Nicky’s chest burning, and maybe it’s gratitude. Admittedly, Booker is still the craftiest son of a bitch he knows, and there’s no reason for him to be wherever Nicky is (Chicago, he supposes) unless he _knows_. 

“Someday, you’ll thank me for this,” Kozak says quietly as she begins to hook Nicky up to the machines. A long pause, where she hesitates on her words before she speaks them. “You see me as the bad guy, don’t you?”

Nicky looks at her expectantly, waiting for her to continue without giving an answer.

She chuckles. “Right. And you don’t consider _why_ any of us are doing what we do, hm? Sure, we have our fun when we can, but the amount of death we are looking to prevent is...truly remarkable. Lucrative for America, as well, which is not my favorite piece to the puzzle, but I will take what I can get.” 

“I’ve been the bad guy before,” Nicky says quietly, in English, staring directly into Kozak. “I would not be surprised when death comes for you as it came for me. You think you are friends with Death until she turns and shoots you herself.” 

It’s Curtis who smirks next, tightening the straps on Nicky’s wrists and ankles. “If we can accomplish what we set out to do, then that shot won’t be fatal. Isn’t that the best part?”

“I would like to see how the next few years go,” Kozak muses, giving Nicky’s hair a gentle tousle. “Though, Hank? We may need to begin fixing...this.” 

Her fingers jab into the lower part of Nicky’s ribcage, directly between the bones to make it more uncomfortable. The best he can do is adjust his shoulders and stay quiet. 

“Once we get to Zürich. Did Sebastien begin to look like this?” Curtis asks, his own gloved hands feeling over the same spot, though more gentle. 

Kozak shakes her head. “Not to this extent, but I also believe Bouchard went easier on him than we are,” she admits. “As interested as I am to see how much punishment their bodies can take...it may be in our best interests to fix it before we’re down to one.” 

Nicky shifts his jaw, blinking up at the ceiling as he tries to absorb their words. From the sound of it, he should be shoving this into the _Things to Worry About_ folder. 

“Our guest gets here in...two hours, no?” Curtis asks, pulling away from Nicky and fiddling with a table to his left. “Do we have a basic report to give him?”

“I believe I’ve almost finished it,” Kozak mumbles. “I’ll wrap it up if you can handle this for now.” 

“Of course I can,” Curtis tells her plainly. “If there’s anything specifically you want me to run while I’m having my fun, shoot me a message.” 

“Bloodwork, if you can. We have the new machine here, may as well give it a go– _also_ , there is more marrow if you want to look under a microscope.” 

Curtis smiles. “Consider it done.” 

Kozak leaves Nicky’s line of sight, and he suddenly gets the impression that he’s going to wish she was here instead of Curtis today. The door clicks shut, and Curtis is audibly clicking on a keyboard and otherwise shuffling around the lab. However, Nicky still does not get the chance to consider his options very much or even think about leaving before Curtis is back with a...brick. He’s holding a brick. 

“You know they sell these for thirty five cents? _Pennies._ I love Home Depot,” Curtis tells him with a wry smile as he looks over the red clay.

That alone is enough to make Nicky nervous. 

“Some results before the holidays would _really_ be nice,” Curtis continues, taking a more serious tone. “Really, I mean it. Maybe I’d lay off for a week and give _both_ of us a break. Wouldn’t that be nice? A real break. I could actually go _skiing._ In the Alps! I’ve never been.” 

Nicky has enough energy to scoff at the notion.

“What’s so funny? Is it so difficult to just give us the answers we want?” Curtis sighs and shakes his head, adjusting his grip on the brick. “Maybe Zürich will change your mind.”

“ _What’s in Zürich?"_ Nicky asks, back to _not English_ for the time being. 

Hank shakes his head, clearly not going to wait for the translation this time.

Nicky has very rarely outwardly shown fear to these people so blatantly, but he can’t help the twist he tries to make before the brick comes down onto his temple. It’s jarring, everything feels like it’s rattling around in his head. His vision goes cloudy for a moment before little black sparks appear when he tries to refocus. Another _smack_ hits his temple, which is when the first real _crunch_ comes around. The splitting headache that comes through is, as Nicky can imagine, only the start. A warm, wet trail steers itself down his cheek–he can’t tell if it’s from his eyes watering or if it’s just blood.

“God damn. You’re still awake,” Curtis mumbles from behind. His sleeves make a rough dragging sound as he pulls them up to his elbows. The next move he makes is to crack his knuckles. “Let’s change that.” 

The brick slams into Nicky’s head a lot harder this time, a force that makes his entire body jolt. Though he’s still seeing stars, he’s managing to hold on just a bit longer… The fourth hit takes him out entirely.

The light is bright when he opens his eyes again. 

Inhaling sharply, the pain that is still residing in Nicky’s head when he snaps back into his body tells him that Curtis didn’t stop once he was out for the count. Glancing over, he can spot the doctor staring at his watch, nodding once and scribbling something down. 

“Six minutes, forty eight seconds. Think we can break seven today?”

Nicky would vomit if he had anything other than water going through his system. No, actually, he may still vomit, but he manages to swallow down the burn in his throat for now. 

They break seven just before Kozak comes back. Nicky can feel his body shaking just slightly by the time she comes back into the room, and he wonders if she’s put off by the amount of blood that _must_ be on Curtis. She clears her throat.

“You’ve got five minutes before he’s here,” she says simply. 

“You know him?” Curtis asks, his steps going to the other side of the room. Sounds like there’s a sink running.

“I could say James is an old friend. I’m...surprised to meet him again under these circumstances, but I’m glad for the opportunity.” 

_James?_ Nicky’s fingers need to tap _something–_ preoccupy themselves somehow _–_ because he’s really hoping that it is not the same person he’s afraid she’s talking about.

Nicky is left alone in the room for a few minutes, both Curtis and Kozak going together out into the hallway. He can’t do too much besides let his body consider the exhaustion and try to gauge how long he has before he needs to really rest. 

“I’ll be in London for the holidays,” Kozak says, her voice echoing through the lab as the doors open again. Nicky’s attention is snapped back to reality. “You’re close, are you not, James?”

“Close, yes, I suppose.” 

_Good Christ. It_ is _Copley._

Admittedly, he does not understand why Copley would be here, nor can he begin to fathom ulterior motives. But as he sees Copley come into view, lingering next to Curtis as they stand over the table, it is surprisingly a crushing blow to his chest. All Nicky can hope for now is that he is hiding the hurt in his eyes.

“They really don’t age, do they?” Copley muses, though his eyebrows furrow. “I thought they weren’t supposed to scar, though.”

Curtis shakes his head. “My guess is the repeated incisions finally left a mark.” 

“Are you...feeding him? Out of curiosity?” Copley continues. 

“Well, no,” Kozak says simply. “The weakness is useful, admittedly. It’s just now beginning to take a toll, it seems, but we aren’t losing men by the handful any more.” 

“I can hear you,” Nicky mumbles, and as much as he wants to shut his eyes, he can’t. He needs to watch them, even if he knows there’s nothing they haven’t already done to him.

Collectively, they ignore his words.

“If you have him, why do you need my research?” Copley asks, a frown crossing his face. “I’m afraid that’s the part I don’t quite understand. My research would be pointless, it’s about the history–”

“But, perhaps, you know information that could be useful to us anyways,” Curtis says simply. “Something you don’t believe to be important, but could change our complete game plan.” 

Copley scoffs. “About _Nicky_? What do you want to know? I’ll tell you anything I know off the top of my head, but I promise, it’s not going to be what you’re looking for.” 

There’s a pause, Kozak and Curtis making eye contact. “I’ve glanced over a lot of your research, James,” she begins. “While I lost the ability to access it once Merrick Industries went under, I do remember quite a bit. Perhaps now is when I admit I didn’t request for you to come here for your research alone.” 

Nicky’s blood freezes. _Are they...no, no way._ He finds himself staring bullets into Copley, waiting for his reply. Copley shifts his weight and looks down to the table, to Nicky, then up at Kozak.

“What is it that you summoned me all the way to _America_ for, then?”

Kozak smiles. “You found them once before. Do you think you could do it again? I need Yusuf or Sebastien, though I would not be opposed in the least to getting my hands back on Andromache.” 

His bonds are too tight for him to even be able to move his wrists, but goddamn does he try. He tries to shift and make _some_ sort of movement towards her, but what parts of his body are willing to move simply do not.

“What’s the endgame?” Copley asks after a long pause.

“We are currently in the process of creating a second batch of half-immortals, and though it wasn’t ideal, I’m using this one–” she lazily gestures to Nicky, “–as half of the equation. Surrogates cost a lot of money, I’m sure you know, and I’d like to have a chance for more... _concrete_ results.” 

“Is this what Zürich is about?” Copley presses, his eyebrows furrowing together. “The surrogate you have now, she’s there, yes?”

Kozak nods after a hesitant moment. “...yes. She’s two months in, no issues yet. Harriet Buckley, if you knew her–”

“I did, briefly.”

“–has agreed to stay with the surrogate for the foreseeable future.”

Nicky is going to be sick. Potentially for real this time if he’s not careful. 

Copley nods. “I imagine it’s a surprise that things are going well, if you’re still in search of the other two.” 

“One can never be too careful,” Curtis points out. “You understand.” 

Copley slowly nods again. “I’ll think it over and get back to you in a few days.” 

“Of course, of course.” Curtis smiles broadly, stepping away with Kozak, his footsteps leading towards the door. “I understand, completely. However, I have to ask–are you free tomorrow? For old times’ sake, we’re having an office Christmas party. While you’re not technically staff anymore, I’m sure it would be great to have you.” 

“I’d love to.” 

Copley makes eye contact with Nicky for one last time, and before Nicky can even _think_ about cursing him out in Italian, Copley winks. Turning on his heels and quickly walking out after Kozak and Curtis, their voices echo from beyond the doors even if the words are unintelligible. 

_Oh. Oh, it’s like that._

Maybe he’s hopeful or naive, but Nicky can get an idea of what is going on; if Copley and Booker being in the same city _at the same time_ is more than coincidence, at least. 

Guards move Nicky without the assistance of the doctors. He’s put back in the cell far too quickly, chained to the wall. At least he has room to move around, the chain is longer. As the guards leave, Nicky finds himself sliding down the back wall with a quiet sigh. 

“You look like shit,” Quynh observes plainly from her spot in the corner. “More so than usual.” 

“Thanks for your confidence,” he mumbles, shaking his head. “I _feel_ like shit too, though.” 

“They are…really beating you up, hm?” 

Nicky shakes his head. “It’s getting worse,” he admits with a light laugh. “But it’s alright. There’s nothing they can do to me that hasn’t been done before.” 

Quynh watches him before she speaks, though she shakes her head. “There’s always worse they can do to you. Always.” 

“They haven’t done it yet,” Nicky tells her, wincing as he shifts his position. God, when did everything start becoming so sore constantly?

“Come here, I need to clean you up.” She frowns as she goes to get the designated rag from the water bucket (of all the things to request, that was what she asked for, but at least she’d made it count), and by the time she’s returned to him, she’s running her fingers up the side of his chest like she’s his doctor. “What are they _doing_ to you?”

“I don’t know.” 

“I want to know. I can feel your ribs.” 

A now-confirmed thing to be added to the _Things to Worry About_ folder. It’s getting pretty full.

“Kozak and Curtis were mumbling about it earlier. They’re not too visible though, right?”

“No, not really. But they are there.” Quynh sighs, visibly clenching her jaw as she steps away to rake her eyes over Nicky. It’s not uncomfortable, even if it is strange. “Now that I look at you…maybe it is just from sustaining so many large injuries and removals. If they were giving you something, I would probably be getting it too.” 

“Did you not lose any weight while you were drowning?”

She blinks off into the distance when the question hits her, but slowly she shakes her head. “I do not believe so. If I did, it was towards the end, but I had no concept of time. Then again, I did spend the first few months out of the water recovering. Maybe…maybe I did.” 

“I don’t mean this to be offensive, but you seem awfully stable for having drowned for so long.” 

Quynh laughs quietly, beginning to dab at his forehead with the wet cloth. “I am nowhere near stable, Nicky, but I appreciate the thought.”

He lets her clean him up. There’s more blood than he anticipated, but Quynh is meticulous in her work. Her hair is getting close to her shoulders by now, though she keeps talking about wanting Nicky to cut it, they haven’t gotten the chance to do so yet.

Once she’s done, and they settle in next to each other, Nicky finds himself searching for the right words. Well, the right _language_ is the better phrase. It’s one of the ones Quynh taught him during the fourteenth century, something far older than him. Though difficult to dig out the words from the pit of his brain, he begins to grasp the proper ones enough to speak. “ _Booker is in town,_ ” he tells her. “ _I don’t know what his plan is, but he’s here._ ”

Quynh’s eyebrows furrow together, and she turns to look at him.

“ _Our...the one who gives us jobs. He’s here too._ _You and I both know the likelihood of the cavalry being not far behind is high_ ,” Nicky adds.

“ _I know._ ”

Nicky turns to look at her. “ _You’re coming with us, Quynh. If it is what I think it is...I’m not going to let them leave you._ ”

“ _You should–_ ”

“ _I don’t give a damn what I should or should not do. I know what I am going to do, and that’s what matters here,_ ” he states. “ _You don’t deserve this, no-one does. What you deserve is a conversation with Andy and a chance to think things over before we proceed onwards in life._ ”

Quynh finally looks back to Nicky, her face seemingly made of stone until she answers. “ _Thank you, Nicolò. Thank you._ ”

There’s a genuine glimmer in her eyes that Nicky hasn’t seen in a long, long time. He wraps her in a hug, though his body protests at her weight on his chest. Quynh gives him a squeeze, though it’s definitely more gentle than it usually would be. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we wind down in one place and merely prepare to go towards a new beginning. huehue i'm having fun drafting the next installment of this story. >:)
> 
> bless the betas. stay dangerous. the drill. i'm tired. california's on fire again.


	14. LaSelle/Van Buren

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nile cracks a small grin. “The congressman’s daughter,” she says quietly.
> 
> “Her family deserves to know what happened,” he tells her, almost an automated response. “They deserve to know that she was only trying to help.” 
> 
> “Does that mean the world finds out about us?” 
> 
> Booker shakes his head. “No. This is the one report that was solely based on Banks, if there’s any mention of immortality, then it’s experiments to try and find it.” 
> 
> “If you say so,” Nile muses, her eyes darting back to the door. “These guys, if nothing else, probably would rather die than let anyone else know that we exist.” 
> 
> He flicks hair out of his face, enough that Nile can look at his eyes when he replies. “They would,” he tells her.
> 
> —
> 
> Or, the Heist Begins

“It’s not looking good,” Copley says quietly, shaking his head. “I have the in for tomorrow, I’ll say that. I didn’t see Quynh, they barely mentioned having her. _But,_ the next move for them is Zürich.”

Nile’s eyebrows furrow together. _Switzerland? What the hell could they want in Switzerland?_

“What do they have over there?” Booker asks, his voice quiet. Even with Copley present, he has not untangled himself from the blanket Andy wrapped him in an hour ago, and he’s still carefully holding a mug of hot chocolate to his chest. 

What brought it on, Nile has no clue. And honestly? She’s not sure if she wants to know the answer. It’s definitely an interesting image, though.

Joe hesitates, then shakes his head. “I know about _Geneva,_ but unless they moved…”

“They may have expanded,” Copley tells them. “I’ll get what I can on the matter, but they’re trying to make another half-immortal. However that works, I’m not sure, but they’re trying.”

“But how far have they gotten?” Nile inquires. She shifts in her seat on the counter of the kitchen. “Do we have to worry about destroying whatever they send over, or is it damage control?”

Copley nods slowly. “Damage control. Their surrogate is two months along.” 

“ _Jesus Christ_ ,” Booker mumbles, sipping at the mug. 

“Doctor Kozak flies out tomorrow morning for the holidays, but she’ll be in Switzerland after.” 

Nile finds her voice again shortly. “We can worry about Switzerland later,” she says simply, “but right now let’s focus on getting our men out. Even with damage control, it sounds like we’ll have time, unless I’m misreading the situation.” 

Copley shakes his head. “No, there’s time, you’re correct. Just not a lot.” His hands go into his pockets as he walks to glance out the window, his eyes seemingly darting up and down the street. “If I see you in there, just know I won’t be able to help you,” he continues. “I’m surprised I don’t have a tail right now, in all honesty.” 

“I don’t expect you to help us beyond what Booker was telling you about,” Andy says, her voice firm. Her arms are crossed over her chest, jaw set and clenched. She’s definitely been worrying for the past few days, Nile won’t be surprised if Andy starts going gray after this. 

Still, Copley nods. “Of course.” 

“Then we’re all good,” she tells him. “We’ll have to catch up soon. Maybe you can fly out to Italy, give us a visit.” 

“You’re going to _Italy_?”

“We’ll come to you if you can at least get in the country,” Andy tells him with a wry smile. “No worries, we’ll find you.” 

Copley looks like he swallowed a bug for a moment. “Right. Of course you will,” he mumbles, shaking his head. “I’ll be able to fly you guys out from London, so long as you can find a way to meet me in Montréal in two days.” 

“I know a guy that’ll have us there Friday morning,” Andy promises. “When are you leaving for London?”

“Fifteen hundred hours.” 

Andy merely nods. She’s done talking, she’s said everything she needed to say. Nile finds it somewhat amusing when she gives a gallic shrug to indicate such, probably something she picked up from Booker (he does it far too often). When Copley doesn’t immediately turn to leave, Andy gives him a subtle look that far too easily reads _you are excused_ and goes to busy herself with scavenging in the kitchen.

Joe is the one to walk with Copley to the car, undoubtedly keeping up conversation while Nile found herself turning to Booker and pulling herself up onto the table to sit with him. 

“You doing okay?” she asks quietly, knowing the answer should be no, but giving him the option to push her away if he wants. 

He really hesitates, seemingly fighting with himself as he clearly waits for words to come out. He sips at the hot chocolate that’s definitely lukewarm at this point, and slowly shakes his head. “ _Non_ ,” he finally mumbles, “but I’ll live.” 

“Okay...if you want to talk about it, just know you can talk to me,” Nile says gently, though she hopes it’s a given at this point. 

“I know, Nile. I appreciate the reminder, though.” 

That fills her with more relief than it should. She nods once, gently setting her hand on Booker’s shoulder and...patting. It’s a little awkward, and she wants to do more to show her support, but that’s what she has to give him right now. At least he doesn’t seem to mind. 

Nile is slipping out the front door next, crossing her arms over her chest in the frigid December air as she waits for Joe to come back. Copley’s pulled out of their shitty driveway and is currently in the process of heading down the road, but Nile watches Joe stand out in the cold even once Copley’s down the street. Hesitantly, and after glancing back at the house, she remembers what she needs to do, and goes out to stand next to him on the driveway.

“Aren’t you cold?” he asks quietly as she approaches and stands next to him. 

She’s managed to slip into her boots, but otherwise she’s just in leggings and a sweater. All this time in California and other warm parts of the world have really desensitized her to winter. 

“A bit. Are you?” she asks quietly, her eyes darting up to him. He’s at least got a jacket.

“A bit,” he echoes.

Nile looks down to the cracked cement beneath her boots and lets herself pause again to gather her thoughts. “Are you going to be good, worst case scenario?” she asks quietly. “I don’t want to think about it, hell, it’s the last thing I want to imagine, but…” 

Joe sharply inhales, shifting his shoulders at the words. His eyes are still trailing off into the distance. Perhaps to the neighbors, perhaps down the street, Nile isn’t sure, but he’s not looking anywhere near her. And honestly? She’s okay with it.

“Worst case scenario? I hope so,” he admits. “I _think_ so, at least.” 

“...are you going to disappear again?” Nile asks, finding (surprising to herself, most of all) that there’s hurt in her voice. 

“I don’t _want_ to disappear again. I only left to try and find what information I could…” He trails off after shooting a glance at Nile. It’s her turn to stare coldly off into the distance. Perhaps the neighbor’s house. He continues, carefully, “I don’t want to leave you all again. I just...want to be _helping_ somehow, and that for me means getting out there into the world and _doing something._ I was never great with computers.” 

Nile nods once. “Alright.” 

“I don’t know what there is I can do, Nile,” he tells her quietly, though his voice is the opposite of patronizing. “Let’s just hope it doesn’t come to the worst case scenario, right? That Copley and Booker are right?”

She nods again. “I sure as hell hope it doesn’t,” she mumbles. “But tomorrow’s gonna suck either way.” 

“You’re right.” 

“...we’re going to _Italy_ after this?”

Joe finds a quiet chuckle in his chest. “I haven’t been here for a while, you think I know what Andy’s thinking?”

“Well, I dunno–no, I guess, but…” She finds a little laugh of her own. “Je _sus_ Christ. Whenever I asked her about the plan once we’re out of the States, it was always _Norway_ or _Kiev_ , but now it’s just...Italy.” 

“I can safely tell you that I have _no_ idea what the plan is,” he says, still smiling softly.

Nile hopes deep down that if this goes wrong that they won’t go to Italy. She is not sure any of them could handle it there without Nicky, especially under these circumstances. When she looks up to Joe, what little smile he had is gone, as he undoubtedly is thinking over the same things she is.

“Let’s get inside,” he says, gesturing to the front door. “It’s cold out here, no?”

“Cold. Yeah.” Nile shakes her head, turning to walk back towards the front door.

Joe keeps close behind her, and they slip back into the house to go their separate ways. He retreats to presumably try and get some rest, and Nile finds herself meandering to Andy. She’s alone at what would be a dining table if it weren’t covered in several bags, a bottle, and quite the selection of guns and weapons. 

The last thing Nile wants to do right now is poke the bear, ask the question she doesn’t think she wants to know the answer to. But, she’s checking on the entire team, which means Andy too. 

“How are you doing?” Nile asks quietly, her eyes flicking to watch Andy at work. “I mean, really. Knowing Quynh’s there too can’t make this easy.” 

“I’m fine.” 

Nile actually manages a quiet laugh. “Bullshit.”

Andy has the gall to look surprised. “I said I’m–”

“I know what you _said_ ,” Nile tells her, “and I also know that there’s no way in _hell_ that you’re completely fine. So how are you, really?”

“ _Bitch_ ,” Andy mumbles with a quiet chuckle. She shakes her head, looking down to the bag on the table in front of her. “I’m...I don’t know how I feel. I guess I’m thrilled to see Quynh again, even if I know everything she did to Book and Nicky. But I also know that even though these sons of bitches have been hurting her, she...may still not side with us. And I have to be ready to fight her, and I’ll be fine if it comes down to it.” 

Nile shakes her head. “I’m sure it won’t.” 

“I _hope_ it won’t,” Andy agrees. “Thank you for asking, though.” 

If Nile was less observant, she would have missed the fact that Andy almost seemed to swallow her pride to say the words. “Of course,” Nile returns. “Making sure the team is stable is important.” 

“I don’t know if I would call any of us _stable._ ”

“Probably not.” 

The two women find themselves laughing quietly. Andy zips up the bag, taking the bottle of alcohol from the table and pouring the two of them glasses. 

“You think Booker’ll be alright?” Nile asks once she’s moved closer to Andy. She takes a glass to sip at out of politeness alone.

“What, with Quynh? I hope so, but I won’t blame him in the least if it’s hard.” Andy shakes her head, downing the glass like a shot. “He met a very different woman than the one Joe, Nicky and I knew.” 

Nile shakes her head. “He’s also...being _like that._ When was the last time he was this aloof?” 

“No, Nile, don’t go there.” Andy shoots her a warning glance. “It’s his place to tell you what happened, not mine, but just know that it’s justified.” 

Admittedly, she’s a bit taken aback, but immediately wondering what in the hell he possibly could have gotten himself into that was so bad. 

“We’ve got a long day tomorrow,” Andy mused, stepping back from Nile. “You should probably get some rest.” 

—

The interior of the building is surprisingly similar to an office. 

There are not enough _Jack Ryan_ s and _Bourne_ s and even _X-Files’_ s (to an extent) to prepare Nile for how mundane the building is. 

Copley had buzzed them in through the first door by pure luck alone, and the badge Booker had picked up got them into the main building. Standing in the hallway of the first floor next to Andy, with Joe and Booker to her back, feels strange. Too _normal_ , even. Like this was just a regular in-and-out sort of job that didn’t have higher stakes than only receiving half of the payment. 

Whatever the hell Booker is working from seems to be doing the trick. His fingers move nimbly across the screen until it gives him the desired effect, and he nods.

“Cameras locked, we move in,” he says quickly, slipping the screen back into his pocket. 

Nile slips out ahead, continuing down the hallway and glancing between the door she _knew_ would lead to the stairwell and the elevator. While she checks the stairwell, she retreats quickly to the main group as they wait for the elevator.

The two men that came out of the elevator stood no chance. In a series of quick shots from Nile and Andy, they are on the ground, bleeding onto the tile. 

Slipping into the elevator, Nile hits the button for the _twelfth_ floor, glancing between the others in the elevator with her. 

_In and out. Try to make it quick if possible. We meet back on fourteen in front of the door, keep out of sight if we don’t get there at the same time. Extraction work is tricky, be careful. Stay safe._

Nile was designated to be paired with Booker to take the western staircase, while Joe and Andy would be taking the eastern. The idea is supposedly clearing exits, making it inevitably easier to get down the first set of stairs and partially avoid an ambush. Nile isn’t quite sure she agrees, but she wasn’t the one to make the plan, so for now she’ll be following orders until something goes wrong. _If_ something goes wrong. Hopefully, it doesn’t come to that. 

There’s a soft _ding,_ the doors sliding open slowly. Nobody is waiting for them on the other side, it’s just more empty hallways.

It’s eerily silent as they step out, Nile keeping her gun at the ready though it remains aimed at the floor. None of them speak–they simply do not need to–as they split off. Nile goes left with Booker, and she leads the way down the hall until it’s time to turn inside. She doesn’t look out the window, she can’t bring herself to look down into Chicago right now. It hurts so much to think that she’s here, but cannot do any of the things she truly wants to.

Their steps are nearly silent down the sterile corridor, too much tile and dark blue walls on this floor for her liking. Offices line the path with titles like _P. Stewarts_ , _Linguistics_ , _H.D. Simmons_ , and _Research Floor_. As she walks, it constantly feels like something is creeping up Nile’s back. Something eight-legged and agonizingly slow, whose only goal is to make its way up and hang onto her shoulders, waiting for her to turn and look at it. 

The stairwell they mean to go up is around the corner. Nile is screwing a silencer onto her pistol, glancing around the empty space. 

When they turn the corner, two men are walking towards them. They seem to have radios, maybe a patrol just checking things over, but Nile has her gun raised before they can shout or reach for their guns. She fires one bullet into a head, while Booker takes care of the other. 

Them falling creates a louder sound than the shot itself did. 

Nile is quick to scavenge the body of the one she killed, her fingers nimbly pulling off the earpiece and radio to have loosely hanging over her ear while she takes the magazine out of the body’s pistol to stick in her waistband. Booker worked just as fast, and they’re moving up into the stairwell, silently creeping up the western walls. 

There are three sets of stairs before they’ve reached the next door, and it’s one that makes Booker pause and turn to glance at Nile.

“There’s a thirteenth floor.” 

She shakes her head, slowly pushing the door open. “Then let’s check it out,” she mumbles softly. “Tell Joe and Andy we’re going to run a little behind.” 

Booker’s voice is a quiet French mumbling, something from deep in his chest. His finger is away from his earpiece soon enough, and he and Nile continue into the floor.

It’s much more open than the last one. At least, the part of the floor that the stairwell spits them out into is. There are some glass walls, some apparent offices lining the far walls, and when they slip in further, what appears to be a meeting room is nestled into the farthest corner (blinds are all up). Nile scans the offices against what may be a far wall (she simply is not sure if this is the entire floor, and gets the feeling it’s not) once she navigates the maze of glass offices in the middle, looking over each one of the labels on the wall until she stops in the middle.

“Book,” she calls, though she keeps her voice low. “Come here.” 

He appears at her shoulder shortly, staring at the label next to the door. 

_H. Curtis_

Nile opens the door first, gun ready and up, but the room is empty of any living body. All that exists is a desk, a filing cabinet, and a computer. Even then, nothing seems to be personalized (save for a single photograph on the desk, next to a napkin that’s been written on), but Booker is nudging past Nile to get to the computer almost instantly. 

“What’re you doing?” Nile asks quietly, shutting the door behind her. She meanders over to stand at his side.

Booker shakes his head, fumbling to unlock the computer. His fingers fly over the keyboard, smacking down _hard_ on the enter key that takes him in. Nile watches over his shoulder, keeping her gun close while her eyes dart occasionally to the nearby door. He’s working fast enough that she can’t completely keep up, but she can still recognize the unredacted version of one of the files, and she bites on her tongue as she watches him open up an email.

 _To whom it may concern,  
_ _Please save this as soon as possible and make it public, this email will undoubtedly be deleted and wiped from any and all servers within four hours. Attached is…_

Nile cracks a small grin. “The congressman’s daughter,” she says quietly.

“Her family deserves to know what happened,” he tells her, almost an automated response. “They deserve to know that she was only trying to help.” 

“Does that mean the world finds out about us?” 

Booker shakes his head. “No. This is the one report that was solely based on Banks, if there’s any mention of immortality, then it’s experiments to try and find it.” 

“If you say so,” Nile muses, her eyes darting back to the door. “These guys, if nothing else, probably would rather die than let anyone else know that we exist.” 

He flicks hair out of his face, enough that Nile can look at his eyes when he replies. “They would,” he tells her, “especially if the alternative meant other people would jump on the hunt.” 

“Part of me appreciates it.” 

“As we should.” Booker hits send before he even proofreads (he signs the email as _“le Livre, a concerned bystander in the wrong place at the wrong time”_ ). “Let the American people see what their government does to the innocent.” 

Nile’s eyes glance at the photograph on the desk. Presumably, the dark haired man is Curtis himself, though he’s with a pretty woman. At least, she seems pretty in an average way–achievable, natural beauty–and like she would be a warm soul to be around. Though, the napkin underneath the image reads _Seb Verne_ with a phone number scrawled over. 

“We should go,” Nile mumbles. “They’re waiting for us upstairs by now.” 

Booker closes out of everything and shuts the computer off in reply. Soon enough, he’s taking the first steps back out into the hallway. Nile is close behind him at first, but he shortly reaches back to shove her into the office once more. Opening her mouth to loudly tell him off for it, no sound comes out when she hears the voices down the hall.

“Hey, you! Who are you, what’re you doing here?”

Nile holds her breath, watching Booker step out and put his hands up. “I’m a party guest, I got lost.” 

“Sure you are, bud.”

Something is mumbled, words that Nile cannot make out. 

“Alright, we’re gonna take you back out, alright? Sound good, pal?”

“Who’re you callin’ pal, jackass?” Booker asks, a wicked grin crossing his face as he’s approached.

They don’t seem to threaten him at first, but they leave Nile’s line of sight far too soon for her to tell what’s going on. She can _hear_ a smack and a Booker groan, but she can’t tell where exactly they are in the hallway. Shortly, she’s crawling over to the door with her finger back on the trigger. Their footsteps begin to move down the tile, but they stop with another _smack_ and a _thunk_ from what sounds like Booker on the ground.

Nile is holding her breath, the air in her lungs screaming to be let out as she can _hear_ Booker arguing in French with whoever picked him back up. There’s two sets of boots ramming into the tile, and the occasional squeak of a shoe. _He’s being dragged._

Adjusting her grip on the gun, she slips out from behind the wall and rounds the corner with the gun aimed and at the ready. 

Two guards are walking away from her, Booker visibly making attempts to shrug them off. Nile takes quick aim and shoots two bullets into one–quick shots, in succession. The guard goes down, and the other is forced to drop Booker (undoubtedly from the sheer _weight_ alone) and whips around with a pistol out.

Booker shifts on his way down, kicking in the knee of the guard while Nile takes her aim and fires into the guard’s throat. It looks painful, and she doesn’t want to know how she made the shot, but she’s walking back to Booker and offering him her hand to help him back up. 

“Thanks for that,” he says, rolling his shoulders and pulling the guns from the guards. “I appreciate it.” 

“Of course. I got you.” 

They hold eye contact for a moment longer than Nile finds comfortable. Something burns in her chest, and instead of thinking about it, she counts the bullets she’s fired from this magazine in her head. _Two. One. Three total._ She’s still got a mostly-full magazine, she’s not going to waste twelve bullets on the mere _chance of having_ three extra. Booker straightens up, holding the pistols in preparation of dual wielding, and they continue back through the labyrinth of the thirteenth floor. 

“What the _fuck_ is this place?” Nile asks. Her steps next to him are quiet, infinitely more so than his. “I thought getting up there would be an easy in-and-out thing. Granted, I was curious, but...” 

“Fuckers definitely lied on their floor plan,” Booker mumbles. “But we’re improvising. And we’re getting somewhere. They were probably going to take me to the closest holding cell.” 

“So...maybe I _shouldn’t_ have shot them.” 

“I’m glad you did. If they damaged the contacts, it would’ve been game over.” 

Going back the way they came, Nile leads them to the stairwell after trying to navigate the maze of glass walls. It takes longer than it should, and Booker has to tap his earpiece at one point and send a quick message back to Andy and Joe. 

They hustle up the stairs, Nile pushing open the door to the fourteenth floor and keeping her pace quick to slip through the hallway. If she remembers the floorplan correctly, there’s only a _minor_ maze to get to the lab from the side they took to get up, but even so, Nile keeps her pace quick. The faster she can get lost and find her way back out, the faster she’ll be able to get into the lab. Booker is always hot on her tail, never further than five feet behind her.

The doors that lead into the lab are easily pushed open by Nile as she slows down just briefly until she stops in the center of the room. Joe and Andy are waiting in a corner, pulling pages out of a filing cabinet. Undoubtedly, it was the best way to pass time, but Nile didn’t want to ask what they were looking for there.

“Took you long enough,” Andy says firmly, stepping away from the cabinet and closer to Nile.

“Give me five minutes at most.” Booker shakes his head, slapping his bag onto a metal table that has a suspicious amount of blood stains underneath it. “Nile, keep an eye on the cams.” 

The lab is cold. Nile is not a fan of the looks of it as she wanders over to Booker to take the little device he offers her. It looks like an old DVD player, but with a very different set of controls, when she opens it up. She flicks through the cameras Booker saved to the machine, watching a few people on the bottom floor making their way through.

“ _Potential breach on the fourteenth floor,_ ” a voice in the radio Nile attached to her ears says, a monotone calm that still startles her out of her observation. “ _Stevens, Hollen, let me know when you’ve reached the floor._ ”

“ _On it, Cap._ ”

Nile glances to Booker as he digs through his bag for the glass. She sighs, not wanting to say it, but she turns to the group fully.

“Two guys on security are coming up to investigate a potential breach,” she says, glancing at the doors they came in through. “I’ll know when they’re here. Also, guys on the first floor. The bodies in the elevator probably have twenty at most.”

“Thank you, twenty,” Booker mumbles softly, carefully stowing the glass he’d just pulled out. Currently, however, he still slips the contacts in, blinking rapidly to get them into place. Funny, seeing him with _brown_ eyes is so surprisingly unsettling that Nile can’t totally comprehend it. 

Joe and Andy are the first to have their guns ready and aimed at the door, though Nile isn’t far behind them. Is it overkill? Yes. Is she willing to risk that sort of business right now? No.

“ _Left!_ ” Booker says all too loudly before Nile can even turn to look at him.

She didn’t hear the door open, but the two guys that are standing in the room with them now did _not_ come in through the main door that Nile and Booker had used. _Fuck_. Nile mumbles a swear to herself as she turns to take her aim, but the firefight that ensues is _not_ in their favor. One man gets two shots into Nile (she can reciprocate one before she’s going down by a third), Booker takes a chest full of lead, and it’s _Joe’s_ quick but calculated shots that leave the two men on the ground by the time Nile is pushing herself back up to her hands and knees.

There’s twenty seconds of hesitation in the comms before Nile hears the voice again. “ _Status update?"_

“They’re asking for an update–what am I telling them?” she asks quietly, eyes darting around the room. “I...actually can’t do it, my voice can’t be similar at all.” 

Booker carefully takes the earpiece from Nile, pressing a small button and leaning into his clipped words. “ _Clear. Be back soon._ ”

She is able to put it back on and glance to the ominous looking door in the back of the room. For the lab’s white, grainy tile (the same as all the others) and peeling tan walls, there is a dead giveaway that there is something important hidden between shelves of supplies and labeled jars and packed boxes with shipping labels prepared. A large, heavy looking door sits on the back wall, next to an intricate appearing keypad. 

Nile’s eyes dart back to the boxes and she approaches the closest shelf to include one. The shipping labels are _prepared_ , and only connected to the box by packing tape. She carefully rips one off and puts it in one of her vest pockets as she’s walking back to Booker getting ready.

“They know that wasn’t their man if they’ve gone silent,” Andy says simply. “We have to get a move on, and fast.” 

Suddenly, the silence in the earpiece is deafening. 

The glove Booker is rolling on is a pale latex that Nile can smell from her spot nearby. Carefully, he removes the glass from the safe storage place. Watching him lift the print is like an art form, he’s so precise with his every tiny movement and each exact placement. Once he’s pulled the print, he’s pulling out his phone and going to his audio recordings as he quickens his pace towards what appears to be a vault door.

The thumb with the lifted print goes on the pad first.

“ _Doctor Hank Curtis_ ” plays from the phone’s recordings next.

He blinks, but his final move is leaning in to allow his eye to be scanned. 

A green light flashes with a quiet, pleasant chirp, and the door audibly unlocks. Booker is already ripping off the glove, trying to get the contacts out in the brief time they have for the door to finish cracking itself open. It definitely seems more intricate than the holding cell Nile is most familiar with, but she can imagine it must _take_ a vault to safely hold Nicky _and_ Quynh, plus keeping them from getting out.

The team of four stands in the doorway, Booker being the one to give the door an extra push as it swings open and reveals a darkened room. 

Nile has never heard Andy choke back a _sob_ before.

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hah, the conclusion is _next_ week, not this week. whoops! >:)
> 
> fair warning, the conclusion is close to double the average chapter length. prepare for the extra long experience.
> 
> anyways stream psychic barber's album nothing personal.
> 
> stay classy folks.


	15. O'Hare International Airport

“I’m really going to need results, Nicolò,” Kozak muses as she sets the scalpel to his chest. “It’s really rather unfortunate that I only have so much in terms of usable samples to send back to Switzerland.” 

“Switzerland?”

“Our next destination–well, _yours_. I’m going to be in England for the holidays,” she tells him simply. “Only one more week in America. Thank God.” 

Nicky rolls his eyes. “ _Si, grazie dio,_ ” he agrees, as audibly sarcastic as possible. He’s taken to speaking Arabic when he has something more than a passing remark to say, which holds true when he continues. “ _But as long as it gets me out of this fucking country, I guess that counts for something, no?"_

Kozak has to wait for the translation to come in before she replies. “I suppose it does. Have you been to Switzerland? Skiing in the alps?”

His next few sentences are, admittedly, just bits of poetry in Arabic that he has memorized. Nothing Joe wrote, that’s far too personal, but definitely something Joe has _read_ to him in the past on a long train ride. Kozak’s eyes narrow in on him once he’s done and the translation has been given to her. The slice into his flesh hurts like hell, and he’s clenching his jaw and holding onto whatever he can; one would think that Nicky would have grown accustomed to the pain, especially when this was how he spent far too many days on the table being sliced open, but it never becomes familiar.

The fade away is welcoming when a hammer smacks his sternum, a brief relief from the real world. 

Waking up to a harsh reality is not the fun part of these days. Nicky can feel his ribcage putting itself back together, never mind his skin is still grafting back together as well. What’s strange is the feeling in Nicky’s chest–something right under his sternum. It aches, but doesn’t _hurt_. 

Curtis has taken the place of Kozak, though all he’s doing is a brief check-up. 

“Meta’s gone for the holidays, officially. It’s just you and me until the new year,” Curtis muses. “Won’t it be fun?”

Nicky doesn’t give Curtis the satisfaction of a reply. 

The doctor taps on his sternum gently, glancing up to a screen that Nicky cannot see. At least, he seems satisfied with the result. Though, Curtis does not say anything to confirm his satisfaction, and he merely steps to the side to sift around a tray that’s been positioned next to the table. 

“I will admit, I don’t have anything I particularly need to do with you,” Curtis continues. “Though, I can say I’ll be gone for a large part of the night. Office Christmas party, I’m sure you know how it can be. If I can, I’ll be back up afterwards.” 

Nicky considers a reply, but finds that his vocal chords don’t even want to make any noise right now when he tries for a preemptive hum to clear his throat.

Curtis appears back over Nicky, his shoulders blocking the brightest part of the light. “I’m just here for some fun, no worries.” 

Nicky does not consider what the doctor is doing as _fun_. Loud music is turned on, a mix of pop that Nicky has never liked before and certainly won’t like now. At least, a lot of it seems to be the American top forty, and he can live without ever hearing most of those songs again. Well, to an extent. 

He doesn’t get to listen to most of the music, really. He sways in and out of consciousness (and life itself) as Curtis scribbles on a pad of paper and keeps clicking a stopwatch every time he wakes up. All Nicky is aware of by the end is that they’re both bloody messes and Curtis is peeling off saturated gloves and his lab coat. 

Guards move Nicky back into the shared cell with Quynh. He’s cuffed in the front (still with the extra length) and a tether of sorts is attached to the wall. Undoubtedly they were trying to hinder his mobility when they installed it and put it to use, though Nicky isn’t sure how they’d exactly achieve that now. 

Quynh is taken as soon as he’s put down. 

How long she’s gone for, Nicky can’t say, but it’s long enough that he can get a small amount of rest before the door is opened and she is returned to plop down next to him, still clearly coming back around. Her eyes dart over to him, and as soon as the door is closed, she lets out a sigh. 

“Am I as much of a mess as you?” she mumbles.

“Probably.” 

Quynh stands and stretches, meandering over to the bucket she filled with water earlier in the morning and tugs out a rag to squeeze out. Her eyes dart to Nicky, and she gestures with her head towards the door. _Sit up_ is what it means. _I’m going to clean you up._

Her fingers are nimble as she dabs at the dried blood, her eyes trained on something and focused, though she still manages to speak. “Do you still celebrate the all-encompassing Yule?” she asks, her eyes flicking up once to his. 

_The all-encompassing Yule._ They all celebrated too many different holidays in December, so they collectively amassed a schedule for a week-long celebration that incorporated bits and pieces from everyone into it. Of course, the regular holidays were still celebrated, but it wasn’t the same.

“Yes,” he tells her with a small chuckle. “Joe’s become quite good at baking the _bûche de Noël,_ Booker finds the most hideous sweaters to wear, Andy gives her usual gifts…you know, the ones that are too good for you to accept at first–” Nicky winces, his fingers digging into his leg as Quynh dabs at a spot that must still be healing, because it _stings_ like hell, “–and Nile has been trying to teach us the new songs. Oh, you’ll love Nile when you get to meet her.” 

“From what you say, she sounds to be quite the character.” 

Nicky smiles for a brief moment. “She has such a heart, and she’s an amazing fighter, but…don’t piss her off.” 

“Oh?” Quynh’s lips twist up into a smirk.

“She refrains from doing it most mornings, but she has been known to stab Booker before she’s awake if he’s being particularly stupid.” 

Quynh laughs. “I like her already. Booker…He seemed like a good man, underneath everything.” 

“Underneath everything? I care for him like a brother, though he’s done some awful things in the past.” 

“I understand.” Quynh pulls away from him with the cloth, nodding once and rinsing it in the small bucket of water she’d gotten from the sink. “Tell me more about Nile.” 

And Nicky does. He takes the cloth from Quynh to take his turn to clean her up, and he finds himself rambling about some of his stories with Nile. When they first found her, when they were in Ireland together, a time that she dragged them out into the streets of Rio de Janeiro and Nicky remembered what it was like to be young. He briefly mentions her in New York City, though it’s nothing more than a brief blip of a mention. Maybe he’s distracted, and that’s why it’s taking so long to clean Quynh up, but he’s not finished when he pauses upon hearing ever so faint (but still present) quiet _pops_ from outside. She seems to hear them too.

Though Nicky continues to get the blood off of the back of Quynh’s neck, he’s wary of what’s going on outside now. Something isn’t sitting right in the pit of his stomach, but he’s finding that he’s less likely to question it and more likely to finish what he’s doing and get some sleep. His body is just...exhausted, and Nicky is sure he doesn’t get more than five hours of sleep at any time. 

The door audibly unlocks with a jolt, a heftier mechanism than usual, it seems. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t at least a little startled, prepared to back himself against the wall again, but Quynh seems to have had the same reaction based on how her body tenses. Nicky gives Quynh’s neck one last scrub before he tosses the rag back into the water bucket. He’s accepted that it is his turn once more by the time the door is opening, that perhaps the party downstairs is over and Curtis is back to see what other methods of torture exist before going home to...whatever he goes home to. Nicky hasn’t gathered much except that Curtis is a miserable bastard who enjoys a good fuck to spite his wife.

Whatever kind of fucked up relationship that is, Nicky doesn’t _want_ to get into.

The light from outside is bright, shining in and getting a few blinks of annoyance out of Nicky. Quynh seems to be faring the same, but her hand flies to Nicky’s wrist to take a hold of it and _grip_ with such a ferocity… 

And then he hears her. He hears _Andromache_ at the door, and his heart melts into the floor, a puddle of soft prayers of gratitude to a God he has not prayed to in months. 

His eyes have _just_ adjusted to the light when he feels Andy’s arm around him, pulling him in close. Though, it doesn’t take a genius to realize that most of her grip and presence is focused on Quynh, and Nicky would have been shocked if it was any other way. Quynh’s arms tangle themselves around Andy, and Nicky merely leans into Andy’s arm with a gentle smile. He already feels like he’s intruding enough, but if she designated him part of this, then he will not pull away.

The next thing he feels is another set of arms around him, and being pressed against a chest. _Joe._ Nicky is now somewhat convinced he really did die on the table, and this is some convoluted dream that’s guiding him into the afterlife. Purgatory, most likely. 

Andy and Quynh shortly turn their hug to fully include Nicky and Joe, and that’s when Nicky finds himself genuinely smiling. His arms wrap around them as best as he can, well aware he and Quynh will get tangled in each other’s chains, but still doing his best. _Family._ Back together again. _Whole_. After hundreds of years...

Hell, he would cry if he had anything left in him to do so. 

They pull apart after a few moments of sitting there in each other’s company, Joe fumbling to pull out a lockpick (undoubtedly from Booker) and get Nicky out of his cuffs. 

Nicky is selfish. He throws his arms around Joe, holding him close and as tight as possible before he’s even finished passing the lockpick off to Andy. It hurts his chest, a sharp pain underneath his sternum, but he does not care.

“I’m sorry I could not get out on my own,” Nicky finally mumbles. “I kept getting shot in the head.” 

Joe chuckles, though it could also be him clearing his throat. No, the warm vibrations from Joe’s chest mean it’s definitely a chuckle, just...hidden under emotions. “Please, the last thing I want you to do right now is apologize, my love.” 

A soft kiss is pressed to Nicky’s temple as he is helped to his feet (he’ll never admit it, but he may be shaking just _slightly_ , so it’s appreciated more than it usually would be). As soon as Nicky is standing, he turns to glance down at Quynh, offering her his hand to help her up next. Even with being slightly unsteady, he is able to pull her up once she accepts the offer.

He glances to Andy, and in turn Joe, before back at Quynh. “She’s coming with us,” he tells them, nodding once to Quynh. She merely gives the faintest smile. “We’re getting her out of here if nothing else, so help me God.” 

Andy audibly scoffs. Just one look at her tells Nicky that it was her plan all along. 

“We need to talk, Andromache,” Quynh says, her gaze breaking away from Nicky and going back to Andy. “We need to have a very, very long talk.” 

“I’m not losing you again,” Andy tells her, definitively. “I understand if you don’t want to come with us, but I _can’t_ just lose you again.” 

Quynh smirks. “We will have all the time in the world, then.” 

Once Nicky is sure of this, that Quynh will be okay, he wraps his arms back around Joe to keep him close. They don’t have much time, he knows, but he needs to take a minute to let his center of gravity swing back to its normal position. Joe does not speak for what feels like a long time, and just puts his arms back around Nicky to squeeze him into his chest. When Nicky almost thinks Joe _is_ speaking, he recognizes a quiet prayer that Nicky has not heard from him in at least a decade. 

Though, it wasn’t like Nicky really had time to pray anymore, either.

They slip out of the cell together, Nicky allowing Joe to continue to practically hold him. Though he will not admit it just yet, the stability is nice to have as he’s trying to keep his feet underneath him. 

Nile and Booker are waiting in the lab for them, an awkward distance away and in the middle of the room. However, Nile crosses the space all too quickly to throw her arms around Nicky. It’s tight, it hurts his chest, but he still chuckles and hugs her back as tightly as he can. 

“It’s good to see you again,” she mumbles before she pulls back away from him.

While he considers giving a snarky reply, he doesn’t find the energy to do so. “I’m very glad to see you again, too,” he says instead, falling back on just being genuine. 

Nile gives him a million-watt smile, even if it’s tinged with a slight bit of sadness, but she slips to the side to pick something up. He doesn’t get to watch her, though, as instead Booker is moving to stand in front of him. Nicky would honestly hug _him too_ if he wasn’t aware of Booker’s weird thing about touching. But, he is, so Booker just gets a little smile instead. 

“It’s nice to see you, Book,” he says quietly.

Booker looks relieved, and cracks a smile. 

Nile is handing Nicky his longsword before Booker can get any words out, and though Nicky gingerly takes it from her, just feeling its familiar weight in his arms is not making him feel particularly great. No, to be frank, he isn’t sure he’ll be able to wield it at all if he doesn’t start feeling marginally more steady on his feet soon. Quynh is hesitantly handed a rifle by Andy, pulled from a bag, with a string of words from Andy about it. He doesn’t know the _name_ of the language, or where it’s from, but he _does_ know that it’s theirs.

Joe presses a gentle kiss to Nicky’s temple, but disappears from his side briefly to accompany Booker in pulling down boxes with shipping labels to begin stacking. Nile is quick to assist them as Andy ventures to stand guard at one of the doors. 

It hits Nicky very quickly that this must be normal proceedings for them, based on how fluidly they move around each other to get the stacks ready. If nothing else, it explained Curtis and Kozak’s constant need for new samples from him every time they relocated. 

After a moment’s hesitation, Nicky steps to stand next to Qunyh, making eye contact with her after a brief moment. Her eyebrows quirk upwards, and he carefully holds out his sword.

“Give me the gun, I don’t think...”

Quynh is clearly surprised. “Is it that bad?” she asks, her voice quiet. “Even now?”

“...everything hurts, so yes. I’m sure it will be fine by the time we’re out of here, but...I don’t believe I’ll get as much use out of it as you could, and vice versa probably.” 

She kind of chuckles, but hands him the rifle and takes the longsword. “You are probably right.” 

“ _Don’t lose it_ ,” he adds in what’s an attempt to be vaguely menacing, but accompanied with a little smile, so it can’t be too bad. “And clean off the blood when you’re done.” 

“I’ll do my best.” 

She ties the sword to herself, partially unsheathing the blade to get a look at it once it’s secured at her waist. He tests how the rifle feels against his shoulder, keeping the gun aimed at the wall. It’s not pleasant, and a different gun is now placed on his priority list; the way the rifle digs into his shoulder does _not_ feel particularly great, and it’s not a great pairing when his knees aren’t completely steady yet.

He takes a moment to ground himself again; _inhale, exhale, proceed_. It’s definitely from not eating and several months of deaths-per-day in the double digits, though he can hardly think straight either now that he’s trying to pinpoint what could be causing his current problems.

This is very much not good. 

But, without the weight of chains on him, or the pressure of soldiers at his back with guns pressed into his spine, Nicky can breathe in and out with a sense of temporary relief. Standing in the lab is a strange feeling–one that manages to remind him further that he’s not free _yet_.

Quynh rests her hand on the pommel of Nicky’s longsword as she approaches the gray stone counter near the window and away from the trio at work, carefully picking up a syringe. He knows the label by heart, he’s seen it so many times– _V4.8 IMMORTALITÉ_. Kozak had worked on it for months in his presence and had been working on it since before they had even gotten a hold of him. Only a few weeks ago, however, did she think it was ready to test. 

He makes the trek over to stand behind her, glancing between it and her and raising an eyebrow. There’s no way she doesn’t know what it does...

She chuckles and shrugs, her eyes briefly darting to Andy. 

Nicky can’t help it. He glances to Andy too, who has yet to move from the door. When he looks back to Quynh, she nods once and tightens her jaw.

There’s no arguing with her, and...maybe all these months have done something to Nicky, but he does not want to stop Quynh from _trying_. 

She keeps the syringe low as she wanders back over to Andy. Nicky will keep an eye on them, but first he’s walking back over to Joe, who has stepped away from Booker and Nile at work. He needs to touch the counters gently with his first few paces, but he’s _finally_ steady on his feet by the time he’s made his way back to Joe.

He is handed a long sleeve shirt when he approaches (only after he’s set the rifle on the table), mumbling a quiet thanks _._ “I hate to ask, but did you bring any granola bars?” he presses after taking a moment to roll up the shirt. 

Joe is running his thumb over Nicky’s scars, clearly not completely listening. The gentle line he traces across his chest, down his sternum (over the spot that still oddly aches), and across his belly at least _feels_ nice. His fingers are soft, the touch gentle and more akin to a whisper. However, it feeling nice does not stop Nicky from gently taking Joe by the shoulders to draw his attention back up.

“I _know_ I’m scarred,” he says quietly. “No, they don’t go away, either. They haven’t for a couple months. I just... _please_ , for the love of God, did you bring _any_ sort of food?”

Clearly, there’s a brief moment of surprise (probably with Nicky’s tone–but for fuck’s sake, he’s allowed to be marginally snippy when it comes to food right now) before Joe blinks and swears quietly. “The bag is in the car,” he mumbles. “But it is there. I’m–” 

Nicky lets his head rest on Joe’s collarbone. “Good enough,” he says quietly to effectively cut him off, as if he weren’t teetering on the edge of a breakdown. Nicky isn’t sure if this breakdown entails sobbing or snapping someone’s neck and shoving a pen into their carotids, but either way he doesn’t want to find out, and that feeling is burning in his lungs. “That’s...that’ll be good enough. I’m sorry, it’s been since June–” 

“I know, I’m sorry, too, but please don’t apologize.” Joe’s fingers snag on Nicky’s chin, tilting it up ever so gently so they really have to look at each other. “Let’s get out of here before we get to all of that, yes?”

“Yes–” Nicky begins. Not that there would have been anything to finish anyways, but the door swings open with a loud smack against the wall, and Andy makes some sort of audible noise of pain. It’s not loud, but Nicky takes note of it, and his eyes dart over to watch Quynh pulling out the syringe from Andy’s neck and tossing it across the floor.

Admittedly, he isn’t sure if that was the best way to give her the serum, but who is he to tell Quynh otherwise?

Yet, Andy and Quynh are not the primary problem. Nicky is picking the gun back up and snapping it to aim, waiting for the draw of the agent in the doorway before he fires a quick but fatal shot. The kick rattles his bones, and while he’s internally swearing up and down the cross, he keeps his eyes trained on the door, waiting for someone else to come in afterwards.

Two more agents do. Nicky only gets the chance to shoot one, the other is impaled by Quynh and shot by Andy. 

“Book? Nile? How’s it going over there? Can we leave?” Andy asks, her voice carrying loudly.

“One second–!” Nile calls back. Something audibly slides.

Andy is still rubbing the back of her neck, turning to glance at Quynh, who seems to have finally remembered the taste of blood after so long. It’s never a good taste, even when one knows they deserve it. The weight still bears down on one’s heart for far too long.

Nicky pulls on the shirt, finally, and gives it a slight adjustment. It’s big on him, but that’s the last thing he cares about at this given moment in time. 

“ _D’accord._ Done. Let’s get the fuck out of here,” Nile says, stepping past Nicky and Joe with Booker hot on her heels. He pulls out a lighter, lingering closer to the pile of boxes in the center of the room.

Nicky moves fast to join the others at the door–he doesn’t need to be told twice that it’s time to go. His muscles are stiff, but a dull ache still throbs through them with the quick pace he’s tried. Yet, he hesitates, glancing at Joe after a brief moment and lowering his voice.

“When did Nile start speaking French?” he asks in a quiet mumble. “ _Did_ she start speaking French?”

He shakes his head. “Book’s been teaching her for a couple months now,” Joe says quietly. “Three or so, I think.” 

Nicky hums a reply. What else was he going to do, say _oh_ like an idiot? No, of course not. 

Booker lingers in the lab with Nile for an extra minute. It gives Nicky the chance to analyze how he feels walking, and he comes to very quick terms with the fact that his body is in worse shape than he initially figured it was. The more he thinks about it, the more he becomes aware of how wrong it feels inside of his own skin. 

He’s internally swearing up and down the cross when he realizes it, and it doesn’t help that the last thing he wants to do is let the team wind up taking care of him when they need to be getting out of here. He _knows_ they need to know, but then why are the words so hard?

“I can’t quite say why,” Nicky starts, his voice low and quiet as he shifts his weight in a test, “but I really don’t think my body is reacting well to moving.” 

“Stay in the middle,” Andy tells him without even taking the time to consider another option. “We’ve got you, Nicky.” 

“ _Grazie_.” 

His legs hold him steady, this at least is for certain now. Just because he’s steady on his feet doesn’t mean he isn’t worried about the exhaustion, though. One look to Quynh, a real look at her, shows the cracks–she’s dead on her feet, too, but she just won’t admit it.

Booker joins them shortly, nodding once and gesturing for them to get moving. What he did, how he solved the problem, Nicky doesn’t know and frankly doesn’t want to question it. Not now. There’s not _time_ right now. Once Booker is back with them, they begin to move out. Andy takes the front of the pack to lead them through strange hallways with Quynh at her side, Joe keeping to Nicky’s side while Booker lingers at Nile’s shoulder as she protects the back of the little group they have going. 

Andy and Quynh are still a brutal display of synchronized force that not even several centuries of time apart could change. Perhaps it’s Andy adapting to Quynh’s style, or how she remembers fighting with her, but either way it’s a sight to behold when they encounter the first wet team that comes up to rush them. 

It isn’t an instant _pop pop_ and it’s over sort of fight. They take a few bullets but don’t go down, or appear to be slowed, which assures Nicky fairly quickly that they’re wearing some sort of kevlar. Maybe Andy, Joe, Nile and Booker _are_ wearing some sort of bulletproof clothing (for the love of all that is holy, he _hopes_ Andy is), maybe they aren’t. 

Nile tanks the first bullet, a medium caliber that goes into her side. “Son of a _bitch_!” Raising up her gun to aim in a quick motion, she takes the next shot, one that smacks into the closest of the people advancing on them. 

None of them go down yet. 

Quynh unsheathes the sword again, readying her stance and the heavy blade in her hands–correction, it’s not actually that heavy, but it’s definitely on the heartier side of most longswords Nicky has wielded over the course of his long, long life. She slips forward to cut and slice before Andy has wrenched the labrys from her back, but Andy joins Quynh shortly to hack into the men. Booker at first is giving suppressing fire, keeping the wet team’s attention away from the close-range threat, but even he begins to move closer once they begin to provide more resistance. 

It’s tedious work, Nicky discovers when he engages. He isn’t shooting until he can get a shot that will confirm a kill, and it takes a full minute of a wary tango before Nicky is able to get a clean shot and takes it. The body crumples to the floor, and his attention is immediately shifting to take another shot into the man Booker is in a tangle with. The man’s body falls onto Booker. 

“I had that,” Booker says with narrowed eyes and the _faintest_ hint of a smirk.

Nicky has to return that smirk. “I could tell.” 

The last shot is from Joe, whose presence Nicky didn’t realize had left his side to take care of a set of flankers. His eyes dart up to meet Nicky’s as soon as the duo is confirmed to be dead, though Nicky’s merely watching a bullet wound in his shoulder quickly heal. It’s reassuring, if nothing else, that he’ll be alright. 

“Jesus _Christ_ ,” Nile mutters, already crouched down to hunt for extra clips. “How many of those do these people have?”

“A couple,” Booker answers far too quickly. “More than a couple, actually. Here? Maybe two more, at very most.” 

Nicky crouches down quickly, rifling around for something that _isn’t_ a heavy rifle to dig into him. Sure enough, he finds a pair of pistols with full clips, deciding that is more than likely the best option for him right now. Plus, with the model of Glock they are, he’ll definitely be able to withstand what little recoil they might try to give him. If he can’t? He’s got some serious problems. 

He sticks an extra set of clips in his pockets, careful when he steps over the bodies. The tile is notably cold, and the last thing he wants is to step in blood and have to deal with _that_. 

They push onwards, down a flight of stairs until Quynh is pulling them onto the thirteenth floor to be out of the stairwell. 

“More are coming up,” she says quietly once Nile has shut the door as quietly as possible. “They’ll either continue going up or come in through there.”

“Got it.” Nile is the first to reply, and she’s the first to back closer to the group with her gun trained on the door. She’s still positioned herself to be the first line of defense against whatever is going to come through it. “They know we’re here, they’re coming through that door.” 

Nicky finds a flourish in his heart that makes him internally smile, if not externally. He really is proud of her, and how she’s grown to lock herself into their little family.

But, that’s beside the point of why they’re there. He’s locking his focus in on the door ahead of them, occasionally sparing a glance to the rest of what seems to be the main section of the floor. Booker mumbles something about wishing he’d brought the grenade launcher, to which Quynh promptly shushes him. It almost elicits a laugh, but Nicky holds onto it for now. 

The door bursts open, an opening round of fire coming from the wet team that’s come up to greet them. It’s heavy shit they’re working with, and Nile only gets a couple of well-aimed shots in before she’s ripped to pieces on the ground. Booker and Joe take their own helping of the lead (Nicky can feel something graze his shoulder, but he’s not sure if it merely skimmed him or went in) before it’s...just him, Andy and Quynh left. 

_Well. Fuck._

Nile can’t have too much time left as she’s healing, but that doesn’t mean she’ll be back up before they’re done reloading. Nicky starts blasting on instinct while Quynh and Andy move in for close range. With what seems like little other option, Nicky moves in with them. While he may be lacking strength and speed, the guns he’s holding really do help ensure he’s on more even footing with these people. 

It’s dirty work, up this close and personal. A smack to the jugular with the grip of the pistol, a double shot from the other into an eye and forehead. Twist, slip away from the shotgun that’s being pulled out. Jerk the pistol up for another quick double-shot. Nicky is in the business of making sure these fuckheads are dead, he doesn’t want to have any surprises when they’re catching their breath. Nile appears at his side to kick a man away and shoot him once, backing away once he falls.

Andy and Quynh are both panting. Nicky takes the chance to look around the floor, where he pauses briefly. 

On the tile, only slightly bloodied, even if it looks like it hurts like hell, is lying a familiar face.

“Hello, Patrick,” Nicky muses, taking his aim. “Tell your daughter I said hello, and I hope she’s doing well.”

Patrick’s face contorts to looking horrified for a brief moment, but as much as his heart is pounding through his ribcage, and as much as he wants to kill Patrick for even having the audacity to be here, he _can’t_. Nicky is precise about the place he shoots him in the chest, knowing he has time before anything too bad happens. The last thing he wants is to take away that little girl’s father, especially when Nicky is aware that he’s all she has. Sometimes, he really hates having a conscience. 

Nicky backs away from the door to the stairwell to linger more in the middle of the room, taking long, slow breaths in and out to calm his heart and his breathing. Adrenaline is still pumping through his body, probably the only reason he’s still on his feet, but he needs to tone it back a little before his heart threatens to give out. 

“Are you alright?” Joe asks quietly from his side. He’s reloading his gun, though there’s still worry strewn across his features.

“Of course,” Nicky promises.

Booker is stretching in front of him, cracking his back and raking his fingers through his hair with his free hand. Finally, Nicky can take the last exhale that returns his breathing to normal.

“Hello, Gorgeous,” a voice says from behind Nicky. 

He freezes, that air just getting caught in his chest all over again, but what might shock him more is that Booker turns with wide eyes before Nicky can even swallow the rush that fills his throat. When Nicky _does_ turn, he’s already aiming upwards to the doctor, and by the time he’s facing Curtis, Booker has been shot in the head, and the gun is aimed at Nicky. 

_Fuck. Fuck, no for the love of–_

The pair of bullets smack into his chest, as if he needed more reason to hate his body right now. 

Curtis is not alone. Three suits back him up, though it’s not like Nicky can actually focus on them. He shifts, ignoring the white-hot pain for just a moment. It’s long enough to get onto his side and aim for Curtis’s knee (anything higher, Nicky isn’t sure he’ll be able to accurately hit). He pulls the trigger as two of the suits go down, undoubtedly Booker and Nile’s work. Blood is filling his lungs, effectively drowning him slowly. What sits at the back of his throat is thick and sticky, and when he spits it onto the ground, he’s not surprised at the sanguine substance on the dirty tile. 

The scimitar’s work is brutal and fast as soon as it’s unsheathed, yet Nicky can recognize the wounds given from the blade are purposely intended to _hurt_ and _maim_ instead of instantly kill. He can remember the last time Joe felt the need to play with his food before enacting death, and, if Nicky remembers correctly, that had been a man who deserved it arguably less than Curtis. 

At least the bastard already lost a kneecap. 

Some cynical, cruel part of Nicky wants to chuckle at the sounds of Curtis in pain as he holds himself up on a shaking elbow to observe. Though Nicky’s breaths are becoming quickly more labored, and each one is beginning to burn just as hot as the bullets had ripped into him, he still stays to watch Curtis on the ground with a blade to his neck, pleading soft words as his blood mixes with the suits that had been gunned down by Nile and Andy. 

“Give me one reason to spare you,” Joe says in a low growl.

Curtis’s black eyes dart over to meet Nicky’s. All Nicky gives him in return is a cold glare.

The doctor tries to compose himself. “Please, I have a family–”

“You _do_ , now? So you know what it’s like to be afraid to lose your _everything_ , that fear of losing the only thing in life you hold dear?” 

“I...yes, yes I do. It–it’s Hell on Earth...” 

“ _Hayati,_ ” Nicky warns, though the word is hard for him to get out. He instinctively tries to swallow the blood, but it only sends him into a brief coughing fit as he chokes on it instead.

Joe glances back to Nicky, and for a brief moment, the hardness is gone from his gaze. He seems to have gotten the message when he turns back to Curtis.

“Then you understand what my reality has been for the past six months,” Joe snarls. 

To his credit, he makes Curtis’s death quick after that. Joe’s scimitar flicks in a quick slash-stab combination, and when he removes the blade from the doctor, he cleans the blade on Curtis’s white shirt and sheathes it. 

Nicky can roll over onto his back with that and briefly shut his eyes, satisfied to know that the doctor is, at the very least, bleeding out onto the floor just like him. Though, is Nicky bleeding out, or drowning in O-negative? He doesn’t know the answer. 

“You’re not healing,” Joe mumbles softly, his fingers tangling in Nicky’s hair. 

This time when Nicky tries to open his mouth to explain, his eyes opening once more to watch Joe hover over him, he continues to choke on blood. He shakes his head instead, reaching up to caress Joe’s cheek gently. What feels like all too soon, Joe takes Nicky’s hand and presses a soft kiss to his palm.

 _God, why is it so slow? Is this what it feels like to normal people? ...holy shit, am I_ actually _dying?_

The panic that had been slowly beginning to rise in Nicky’s chest reaches a high point. Logically, he knows that there’s a good chance that his body is just doing what it needs to do in order to help him heal, but deep down? Deep down he’s fucking terrified that the small chance of his time having finally arrived. 

Quynh’s voice is strongest amongst the mumblings in the hallway, though it’s still quiet. “Either get ready to pick up and move, or we hold for ten minutes. At most, ten minutes.” 

_I’m not ready yet, I don’t want to die._

Funny. After all these months of craving the sweet, short release of death, he was prepared to beg on his hands and knees to God himself for more time. 

“I just got you back, Nicolò, you can’t…you cannot leave me now,” Joe tells him, his voice far too quiet. “Not now.” 

He finds his voice, though each word is difficult to say. “Our fate is a gift,” he says quietly. He tries to clear his throat, but it doesn’t do too much good. “It can’t be taken away from us.”

Nicky manages a faint smile before his fingers slip and fall. His chest stops heaving all too soon, his breaths are no longer labored. He merely stops existing in Joe’s arms. 

He doesn’t go out with a bang.

But he wouldn’t call it a whimper either.

—

The world phases into focus slowly. A swiftly tilting planet is steering back into view, the light nearly blinding and the pain that lingers in his chest feels alien and _wrong_. Maybe he’s back on the table. Maybe escaping was just a dream he had, and Curtis had come close to killing him for real this time–

Nicky jerks awake, his chest heaving. There’s audibly gunfire around him, and though he needs a moment to catch his breath, it smacks into him all too quickly that _no, that wasn’t a dream, and we’re getting fucked._ He’s pushing himself off of the ground and snatching the two pistols left near him before the thoughts finish running through his head. The group was split, Booker, Andy, and Quynh on one side with Nile and Joe on the other. While the numbers would dictate he goes to Nile and Joe, Nicky instead finds that he’s facing the flank and taking quick aim to fire into the first guard he sees coming down the hall. 

It’s over just as quickly as Nicky woke up. The gunfire stops, and his little family turns to look at each other, and, in turn, Nicky as he lowers the pistol and swallows hard. Running his fingers through his hair, it takes a moment for him to center himself again. 

There is officially nobody else coming to surprise them when Joe wraps his arms around Nicky tightly, straightening himself out to become tall enough to bury his nose in Nicky’s hair. Maybe Nicky slouches a little to help once he realizes what Joe’s doing. 

“Don’t do that again,” Joe tells him quietly. “You scared the shit out of me.”

“ _Amore mio che move il sole e l'altre stelle,_ ” Nicky mumbles. “You must have forgotten who I am, if you thought I was going to let you get out of here without me.” 

Joe keeps his grip firm around Nicky’s shoulders. “I thought you hated Dante,” he says quietly, though Nicky can feel a faint smile. 

And Nicky chuckles at the reply. “He sometimes knew what he was saying.” 

They are slightly more confident as they continue into the elevator, if for no other reason than that the number of bodies would suggest that most of the force had been depleted. They pile into the elevator, a tight fit, and keep their guns trained on the door. Neither Nicky nor Quynh (as much as she’d love to argue it) are in the shape to trek down so many flights of stairs, and as long as they’re careful, it should be good enough.

The door pings open on the bottom floor, the hallway empty. 

“They’re retreating,” Nile says quietly, pulling a small cord away from her ear and a radio from her pocket. She drops it in the elevator on her way out. “We gotta go now.” 

“Don’t have to tell me twice,” Booker mumbles, stepping out after Nile. 

Nicky follows them out, definitely more wary of the empty hallway than either of them are. Maybe it’s from too many escape attempts, maybe he doesn’t believe there’s a possible chance they’re willing to let him go, but he can’t stop looking back over his shoulder as Nile and Booker guide them to a small door at the far end of the hallway.

Booker presses a small badge to a little black box, and a chirp comes from it. Nile pushes the door open after the noise, and slips out into the night. 

When he steps out into the air, it’s a cold shock to Nicky’s body. The air is sharp against the back of his throat, and his first instinct is to stick the pistols in his waistband and wrap his arms around himself. However, he does not do it. Instead, he takes a moment to breathe in the air around him and let the cold sting his skin.

As he steps foot into the outside world, he sees the stars.

If he had it in him, he would probably cry. The emotion is there, bubbling in his chest, but nothing wants to come out. For that, he’s grateful.

_Good God, it’s cold._

His thoughts are sidetracked when he realizes he’s shivering. Right. He lost a lot of body fat (and probably some muscle, too). Though, the shirt he’s acquired _is_ rather thin, still coated in a layer of drying blood from where he was shot, and he...isn’t wearing shoes. _Oh._ The concrete is fucking _freezing._ That’s what’s making this so miserable. 

Quynh moves to stand next to Nicky, sheathing the sword and stilling. Her eyes, too, are looking up to the sky. Slowly, she turns to look at Nicky. 

“I told you to have a little faith,” she muses, wrapping her arms around him in a gentle hug. 

He reciprocates, but does not linger. 

“We need to go,” Andy tells them, her voice only a little unsteady. “Come, the car isn’t too far.” 

Booker and Nile are several paces ahead, and have begun to walk away from them. While Nicky’s body is beginning to warn him that the adrenaline has worn off, that he’s fucked and out of energy, he convinces himself to keep pushing onwards. Joe’s arm snakes around his waist, and Nicky is all too quick to take the opportunity to lean against his shoulder as they keep pace behind Nile and Booker.

True to Andy’s word, the car is not too far away. Nile is the first one there, opening the trunk and beginning to unload into it. Her vest, guns, extra knives–they all go into the trunk. She pulls out a small bag before Booker can unload and throw his own materials inside. Nicky contributes his two pistols, but slips into the car with Quynh once his sword is confirmed to be safely in the trunk. The pair inhabit the middle of the back row while the others still mill around outside.

Nicky never got to experience being a kid and sitting in the back of his parents’ car (probably because he was born eight hundred and seventeen years before cars were invented), but he _knows_ this is what it feels like. 

“What comes next?” Quynh asks, her voice quiet and hushed. “Where...do we go from here?”

Nicky shakes his head. “I don’t know. Hopefully? Out of this country.” 

She nods. That seems to be good enough for her.

The trunk slams shut, and _Booker and Nile_ take the front seats. Nicky doesn’t know whether he expected it or not–maybe, instead, he’s wondering what the hell he missed.

Joe slips in next to him, Andy takes the spot next to Quynh. Expected, somewhat more than Nile and Booker in the front, but he’ll take it. They’re moving before Andy has completely shut the door, and the emotions hanging in the car make it hard to breathe. There’s...so much underneath it all, what Nicky cannot completely pinpoint, but he _would_ be able to if he had the energy. Even now, he isn’t even hungry anymore, he just wants to fall asleep on Joe’s shoulder. He leans into Joe’s chest, smiling faintly when Joe wraps an arm around him to drag him in closer.

“I hate to…bring it up now,” Booker says quietly after what must have been ten minutes of pure silence, his voice radiating from the driver’s seat of the car. Nicky is suddenly very glad Booker is not crammed into the backseat with them–between Joe and Nicky himself, the broad shoulders are already making sure it’s cramped, they don’t need to add another giant to the mix. “But when you all leave the country, should I be on a separate plane?”

It’s Nile who speaks first. “I don’t follow what you’re saying.” 

“Well, what I came back to you all for is resolved, it’s done–” Booker sighs, “–and if you need your space, I’d like to be able to get a plane ticket _now_ instead of later.” 

“That’s ridiculous, Sebastien,” Joe says with a quiet scoff. The vibrations from his chest are soothing. “Don’t say things like that.” 

“We’re keeping you around. Why would we send you away now?” Nile tacks on.

Booker shifts, seemingly uncomfortable. “I just wanted to offer.”

“Book, after everything you’ve done…” Andy starts, but trails off and changes her words around quickly. “We can’t afford to be alone right now. None of us can, not when there’s still the potential for the CIA to be on our ass. We’re not letting them take you again without us knowing.” 

When Nicky looks up, he swears that he can see the faintest hint of a smile from Booker in the rearview mirror. 

“So,” Quynh begins, switching the subjects with her voice audibly sleepy. Her eyes shift to train on the passenger seat. “You must be Nile.” 

Nile turns at the sound of her name, twisting entirely in the seat to face the back. It can’t be comfortable. “Last I checked, that was still me.” 

Quynh smiles as she leans on Andy. “I have heard a lot of things about you, and...I am glad to finally meet you, little sister.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and that was it! holy shit. it's done. 80k of angst. done.
> 
> there's gone be a short one-shot type deal later this week, then we're taking a week break before i start posting the comfort fic. but it is coming!
> 
> for fic updates (and general old guard content), you can also follow me on tumblr, at [andromachesimp](https://andromachesimp.tumblr.com) where i am generally a trainwreck in my reblog habits, but we have fun anyways.
> 
> this was beta read by [roses-are-red713](https://roses-are-red713.tumblr.com), [wordywizard](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wordywizard/pseuds/Wordywizard), and [Bat_Gargoyle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bat_Gargoyle).


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